Phoenix Song
by ultimaton
Summary: Aidan Hayes was NOT accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A much darker story than my previous two posts. Rated [R] for explicit material. Comments, as always, welcome. Chapter 15 is up once more. Sorry, but it needed some revision.
1. Fire

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if explicit scenes offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to take the nearest Worldgate at any time.

ONE

His thirteenth birthday dawned bright and sunny, the slanting rays of golden sunlight filtering through the small window in his bedroom and shining directly into his closed eyes, but Aidan was not going to enjoy it. His thoughts were occupied with dread of what was yet to come, what inevitably would occur before the day was over when his adoptive father returned from traveling overseas. He shivered as he climbed out of bed, and it had nothing to do with the cool morning air that rapidly dissipated the warmth he'd built up underneath the blanket. Padding on silent feet across the small room, he peered through the half-open door out into the corridor; satisfied that Elisa was still asleep, he closed it quietly, turned and surveyed his room.

It looked like the bedroom of any other teenage boy: with posters of various rock groups on the walls, model airplanes hanging from the ceiling, clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor and on the small writing desk in the corner by the window, bedclothes rumpled...but Aidan knew that he was not like any other teenage boy; he was an orphan, without a home or a family, save for this place and the people who had taken him in seven years ago, and neither one qualified for their respective title.

"We want you to think of this as home now," Elisa Sears had said to him on the day he was placed, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes as she stooped down to his level and took his hand in hers.

"Absolutely," her husband, Morgan, chimed in. "You can call us Elisa and Morgan, or 'mum' and 'dad', if you like," he added with a cheerful smile of his own. But Aidan remembered that the smile had not extended to his eyes; something else lurked there, something darker, more sinister, that gazed hungrily out at him from the man's eyes, and Aidan was afraid.

"It's natural to be afraid," his social worker told him a week later, during a routine visit, when Aidan had expressed his fear to her. "It's a new environment. You'll get used to it, in time." But she didn't know what had begun to happen after that, not even Elisa knew that; only Aidan and Morgan knew, and Aidan was constantly trying to forget.

Pushing the thoughts aside, for they led down dark roads in his mind, Aidan instead strode over to his closet, stripping off his t-shirt and letting it fall to the floor with the other discarded clothing. A full-length mirror was attached to the inside of the door, and Aidan wanted to see if his after-school workouts had any noticeable effects yet. But no, it was evident as he flexed his arms experimentally that he was still the same, skinny, red-haired kid as before, despite a week of weight training. His clear blue eyes took in his thin frame with dissatisfaction, taking particular note of his midsection, on which the faintest hint of baby fat still lingered--that definitely had to go. So, too, did his boyish face, even though he thought it looked okay--but he didn't want any traces of softness or boyishness remaining, he wanted to be a man: hard and strong and able to defend himself, particularly against...

Once more, he forced the thoughts from his mind with an effort. The dread he felt concerning the coming day was constantly stirring up old memories and fears, causing his heart to flutter in his chest as his every muscle tensed, sensing danger. Mr. Sears was coming home tonight, and that meant one thing, but Aidan refused to think about it. There was nothing he could do about it, not yet; in time, once the weight training began to show--but that thought didn't erase the stain of shame and guilt he felt, nor did it drive away the fear.

Aidan gritted his teeth and cast about in his mind for another train of thought, any other train of thought, but one was difficult to find. So many of his memories revolved around that particular bit of recurring horror, ever since he'd come here. His mind finally lit upon the faces of his friends from school, Brendan and Bridgid Conavan, the only real friends he had.

At school, Aidan was quiet and reserved; he kept his head down and did his work diligently, saying little and rarely smiling. On the other hand, both Brigid and Brendan were bright, friendly, talkative and outgoing--qualities which Aidan fervently desired to possess. Although the twins had many friends and acquaintances, they had noticed the quiet boy in their classes and took the time to approach Aidan to try and draw him out; a fact for which he was forever grateful. They would be here, he realized with sudden encouragement, for as long as his birthday party lasted, and they would bring their friends, quite possibly ensuring that the festivities lasted for a long time, delaying the inevitable and maybe even--he hardly dared hope--postponing it altogether.

With a sigh and a final glance at his reflection, Aidan selected a clean, short-sleeved shirt from the closet and swung the door shut. He rummaged through his bureau for his jeans and the rest of his outfit and quietly stepped out into the hallway, headed for the washroom and a shower. He showered and dressed quickly, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Elisa; she was the only good thing about this place, so he did his best to be as considerate as possible.

Still toweling his hair, Aidan made his way downstairs and into the immaculate, gleaming kitchen, whose spotless tile floor bore witness to Elisa's dedication. The kitchen often doubled as her workspace when she was writing; she would sit at the small wooden table typing furiously at her notebook computer, pausing every now then to stare out the large sliding doors that led to the side yard and sip from her coffee mug. Coffee was what Aidan had in mind; he flipped the switch on the machine, which he had prepared the previous night, and went to fetch the morning paper, tossing the damp towel onto the dark green leather couch in the living room as he opened the front door.

It was not yet eight in the morning, but the day already promised to be bright and warm; there was not a cloud to be seen in the blue sky as Aidan trod barefoot over the cool green lawn, still wet with dew, to where the paper lay. Birds chirped and fluttered from tree to tree, a dog barked somewhere, and everything seemed right with the world. Aidan stood with the paper in his hand, face uplifted, eyes closed, letting the warm sun caress his skin, inhaling the scent of grass and damp earth and trying to internalize the sense of peace that morning brought with it. Finally, regretfully, he returned to the house.

Elisa was already in the kitchen, her blonde hair in curlers, wearing a white robe and slippers and pouring herself a cup of coffee as Aidan reentered the room, dropping the sodden paper on the table. "Morning," she said sleepily, busying herself with cream and sugar for the coffee. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks," Aidan said. It would only be happy so long as Mr. Sears was away. "What time will Morgan get home?" he asked her, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Around seven," she replied, picking the wet newspaper up from the table with a sigh. "I wish they wouldn't leave it in the grass."

The Sears house was one of many medium-sized houses making up the small neighborhood of Arshield Close, one of many such neighborhoods in the greater London area, a short distance from the Thames. The neighborhood was well-kept; its high hedges closely trimmed, its lush grass verdant, its tall trees casting cool shadows that were most welcome in the summer heat. A few children lived there, mostly younger than Aidan, and they could often be seen skipping rope or tearing up and down the street on their bicycles and scooters, sometimes to the displeasure of the older residents. Elisa, Morgan, and Aidan were well-known and well-liked, and so Elisa had thought to invite some of the kids to Aidan's party, despite his protests. Shortly after noon, therefore, they began to arrive, laughing and giggling, balancing gifts on their heads or merely carrying them as they made their way up the walk to the house.

"Get the door, would you, Aidan?" Elisa asked from the stepladder on which she was making a few last-minute adjustments to the decorations, which, in Aidan's opinion were completely unnecessary. Elisa would hear none of it; a party wasn't a party in her mind without the proper embellishments, and she had busied herself with putting up a large banner that read "Happy Birthday, Aidan", along with the associated streamers and crepe paper braids. The coffee table in the living room had been cleared for the purpose of receiving gifts and already bore two, marked "From Elisa" and "From Morgan", respectively.

Obediently, he opened the front door, letting the heat of the day enter into the cool house. Bethany Jordan, a precocious little girl from the other end of the street stood there in a bright yellow jumper, her brown hair pulled back into pigtails, a box almost as big as her body clutched in her arms. "Come on in," he said, holding open the screen door and she traipsed through the doorway, followed by Levi and Malcolm Porter, who were shoving at each other, each boy trying to get the other to drop his gift.

"Welcome, kids," Elisa said, stepping down from the ladder to survey her work. "Just put your presents on the coffee table, and Aidan will fetch you something to drink."

"Sure," Aidan replied, shutting the door and eyeing the Porter brothers, who were wrestling noisily on the couch. He shot Elisa a _you-invited-them-not-me_ look and said, "Anybody want anything?"

"Do you have punch?" Bethany asked.

"I'm afraid not," Aidan answered. Elisa was a health nut and deplored sugar; everyone else in the house suffered accordingly. "We have lemonade, iced tea, water, juice..."

"I only drink punch," the little girl declared, pouting, her lower lip thrust out. At the same moment, Levi and Malcolm both tumbled to the floor with a thud and an audible "Oof!"

Aidan rolled his eyes and sighed. He couldn't wait until his friends showed up; the thought of spending the afternoon with a bunch of horrible, snot-nosed brats was unappealing. Fortunately the twins arrived in short order, followed by half a dozen of their friends, so that Aidan could hang out with people his own age and leave the neighborhood terrors to Elisa. Aidan knew most of the teens by sight, but Brendan went through the introductions anyway.

"This is Eric," he said, indicating the boy with spiky orange hair and several piercings that was standing next to him. "And over there is Zeke"--he pointed to a dark-haired boy wearing baggy cargo pants--"and Louis." A stocky boy with angular eyes waved genially from the group surrounding Brigid, smiling at Aidan and revealing a mouth full of braces.

"Who's sitting next to Brigid?" Aidan asked, noting the boy with blonde hair and blue eyes who had one arm casually draped over the dark-haired girl's shoulder.

Brendan's smile became mocking. "That's her _boyfriend_, Conrad. He's _sixteen_ and a football player. They've been going out for what," he asked Eric, "a week?"

"Two," Eric corrected him, grinning also.

"I think it's getting serious," said Brendan. "He's all she ever talks about anymore." His sister looked up from her conversation with the two girls that usually accompanied her as if aware she was being discussed; catching her brother's look, she stuck her tongue out and made a rude gesture. Brendan laughed and turned toward Aidan. "She hates when I make fun of her for it. Which is why I do it, of course."

"Of course."

"The two girls that follow her around everywhere are Janet and Christine, and the only place they haven't been yet is on one of Brigid's dates."

"We heard that!" Brigid called.

Brendan grimaced. "Better talk quietly," he said, lowering voice.

"You're not afraid of your sister?" Eric accused him.

"You don't have to live with her," Brendan retorted. "So, what's up?" he asked Aidan, frowning as the Porter brothers chased Bethany squealing through the kitchen. "What's with the brats?"

"Elisa invited them," Aidan replied. "Their parents are friends of the family."

"That changes the whole tone of the party," his friend observed.

"I know," Aidan said mournfully. "Actually, I think that's why she did it."

Brendan nodded thoughtfully. "Guess we'll have to make the best of a bad situation," he said decidedly as Elisa shooed the Porter boys out of the kitchen, Bethany clutching tightly to her legs.

"Time for cake," Elisa announced, "and then Aidan can unwrap his presents. Everyone ready?"

"I don't like cake," Bethany said, letting go of Elisa.

"That's okay, dear; you don't have to have any." Elisa opened the refrigerator door and withdrew a square cake, covered with white frosting and the words "Happy Birthday, Aidan!" To Aidan's horror, a picture of himself at six years of age had been frosted onto the cake, with thirteen small blue candles arranged to one side.

"Oh, how cute!" Brigid exclaimed upon seeing it. "Don't you think?" she asked her two girlfriends, who smiled and nodded unconvincingly. Brendan and Eric smirked, and Aidan, blushing furiously, wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor.

"Nice picture," Eric remarked.

"Why?" Aidan asked Elisa reproachfully, feeling his ears burning.

"I just wanted to remind you of how far you've come," Elisa replied, setting the cake on the kitchen table. "You're officially a teenager today. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Don't worry," Brendan told him reassuringly. "We'll dispose of the picture for you."

"Dude, when you blush, you really blush," Eric snickered. Aidan touched one hand to his cheek and pulled it away sharply as his reflexes registered a burning sensation in his fingers. It felt like his face was on fire.

"Excuse me," he mumbled, dashing hurriedly from the kitchen.

"Don't be long," Elisa called after him. "You've still got to blow out the candles!"

Aidan rushed into the downstairs washroom, flipping on the lights, and gasped as he saw his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His face, his ears, his neck, his hands--all were flaming red, as if he had been badly sunburned, making even his hair look pale in comparison.

Concerned, he twisted the handle for cold water as far as it would go, letting the faucet run for a moment into the basin before bending over and splashing water on his face. It was wonderfully cool and wet against his skin, and immediately he began to feel better. Looking up into the mirror, he saw the redness had already begun to fade, and he continued vigorously showering water all over until his skin felt cool again. Panting, water trailing down his face, he stood up. His skin had almost returned to its normal coloring, except for his cheeks, which retained a slightly pink cast.

_ That was weird_, he thought, mopping his face with a hand towel. He had never blushed so furiously before, and it worried him. But it had gone away. It was probably an anomaly, a one-time occurrence brought on by severe embarrassment. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to relax. _At least it wasn't a naked baby picture, thank God._ _I just hope I don't have any other surprises today_. Squaring his shoulders, Aidan left the washroom and made his way back into the kitchen, where Elisa was lighting the candles on his cake.

"Are you all right?" she asked, glancing worriedly up at him as the last candle began to burn. "I'm sorry about the picture."

"It's okay," he reassured her. "It was just--unexpected." She nodded slowly, still looking worried. "Shall I blow out the candles, then?" he asked, wanting to change the subject.

"Yes!" Brendan replied immediately. "So that we can be rid of that foul picture."

"Don't say that," Elisa chided him. "He was cute when he was younger."

"He was," Brendan agreed. "Don't know what happened, do you? Ouch!" he cried in mock pain as Aidan socked him lightly on the arm, grinning despite himself.

"Go on, then," Elisa said, turning the cake so the candles were closest to Aidan. "Make a wish."

_I know what I wish,_ he thought, momentarily carefree, looking around at the room, at the twins and their friends. He snuffed all but one of the candles with a single breath, and for some reason, the sight of the single remaining incandescent candle, jet black in color with a flickering tongue of fire, brought a sense of foreboding. Quickly, he blew it out, but the feeling of dread did not die with the flame but remained, augmented by the inexplicable fever of a few minutes prior.

"I want some cake," Bethany whined, watching as Elisa cut a large piece for Aidan and placed it on a paper plate. He accepted it automatically and went to sit on the couch in the living room. Something bad was coming, but he already knew that; when Morgan finally got home, the torment would begin anew. Except that this feeling was far deeper, far more urgent than even his fear of Morgan.

"See? I got your head," Brendan said, sitting down next to him. "Now, even if the cake falls into the wrong hands, no one will know it's a picture of you. Are you all right?" he asked, noticing Aidan's faraway look.

"Yeah," Aidan said with a forced smile, dragging his mind back into the present. But the image of the black candle that refused to go out with the others haunted him for the rest of the day.

The party, such as it was with the neighborhood children present, lasted until early evening. Finally, only the twins and Conrad remained with Aidan. They sat around the coffee table, playing poker with the M&M's Elisa had procured from somewhere. In the background, on the high-fidelity stereo system Elisa had given him for his birthday, a singer was screaming into the microphone, although his unintelligible lyrics were kept low enough to avoid disturbing the neighbors.

"I'll see your blue and raise you two reds," Brigid said smartly, tossing two M&M's into the pile at the center of the coffee table.

"Damn," Brendan swore, throwing his cards down disgustedly. "I fold." He yawned and checked the clock on Aidan's stereo. "Uh-oh. It's six-thirty. Mum and dad are going to be here soon."

"Do you have to go?" Aidan asked, suddenly anxious. "I fold, too," he added, laying his cards on the table.

Brendan nodded. "Yeah. They suddenly don't like us staying out late." He frowned at Bridgid and Conrad, who sitting across from each other. "I don't think they like Bridgid's taste in older men; afraid she'll be out all night with him, I expect."

"I call," Conrad was saying.

"Are you sure? All right," Bridgid replied in a _you-asked-for-it_ tone of voice. "Straight flush," she announced triumphantly, showing him her cards.

Conrad scowled darkly. "Four of a kind," he muttered. "You win."

"Get used to it, mate," Brendan told him. "Maybe he'll think twice about dating someone who always beats him," he whispered to Aidan, grinning mischievously.

Aidan did not share his friend's high spirits, however; at that moment he heard a vehicle pull up outside and his heart began to pound wildly in his head. Listening hard, he caught the sound of one, _two_ car doors opening and slamming closed. He began to feel sick with dread as he heard footsteps approaching the house, and the air suddenly felt cold.

"That's Mum and Dad," Brendan declared, peering through the drapes on the living room window. Aidan sagged with relief.

"Your parents are here!" Elisa called as she came downstairs. "Get the door, Aidan, don't leave them waiting outside."

Aidan got shakily to his feet and did as she asked.

"Hello!" Dr. Conavan greeted him cheerfully. "Are B and B ready?"

It was easy to see where the twins got their looks. Both Dr. and Mrs. Conavan had dark eyes and jet black hair, though Mr. Conavan's was beginning to show some silver, particularly in his neatly-trimmed beard. They were both well-dressed: Dr. Conavan in a gray jacket and dark pants, Mrs. Conavan in a tight black dress and white blouse.

"Thank you," Mrs. Conavan said as Aidan invited them inside.

"How was the party?" Dr. Conavan asked him, smiling broadly. "Feeling those raging teenage hormones yet?" His dark eyes twinkled mischievously from behind his glasses.

"Oh, Mark, stop it," Mrs. Conavan reproved him. "Just ignore him," she advised Aidan, "he's as bad as his children."

"The other way around, actually," Brendan said, pulling on his shoes. "That way we have an excuse."

"Not for everything," Mrs. Conavan commented dryly, looking sternly at her daughter, who broke lip contact with Conrad upon noticing the attention, and looked away, embarrassed. Brendan pretended to throw up, earning him a sharp rap on the back of the head from his mother.

"See what I was talking about?" Dr. Conavan asked wryly. "Let's get this lot home before they cause any more trouble."

"_You'll_ be riding in front," Mrs. Conavan informed her daughter as she walked past Aidan, uttering a hurried "Bye!", Conrad trailing after her.

"Thanks for having us," Brendan said to Aidan, smiling. "Bye, Mrs. Sears!"

"Good-bye, guys," Elisa replied, seeing them to the door and waving. "Drive safely!"

Aidan watched as they crossed the street and climbed into the parked sedan belonging to Dr. Conavan, wishing he could go, too. Any minute now, Morgan's small, expensive car would turn onto Arshield Close. He backed away from the door, unwilling to risk seeing it; as long as he didn't see it, he could pretend it wasn't going to happen, that Morgan's flight had been delayed.

"Did you have fun?" Elisa inquired as he turned toward the stairs.

"Yes," he replied unthinkingly, his anxiety mounting with every passing second. His hands felt cold and clammy, his breath was coming in short gasps. _Stay calm,_ he told himself, swallowing hard, _stay calm._

Through the screen door, Aidan heard the sound of a car slowing to a stop in front of the house, brakes squeaking slightly. _Please be the neighbors, the Conavans coming back for something, anything but--_

"That's Morgan," Elisa said.

Aidan froze, shaking all over. His hands had gone completely numb; his legs were rooted to the floor. _Move!_ he commanded, _move!_ He had to get out of there before the man came, before he saw him, he had to hide! But there was nowhere he could hide, nowhere that he hadn't tried before, and Morgan had always found him, in the end. With an effort, his legs like stiff boards, he staggered over to the stairs. _Have to get to my room before he sees me..._

Outside, a car door slammed shut.

He tried to hoist himself up using the rail, but his hands would not move; it felt like an electric current was running through them, sapping all of his strength. _Come on, one step at a time. Up the stairs..._

"Don't you want to say hello?" Elisa asked him.

The sound of purposeful footsteps on the concrete walk, drawing closer...the top of the staircase seemed so distant...

"No," he croaked, "not feeling well."

The screen door squeaking on its hinges and, "You're not?" a male voice asked.

Still gasping, Aidan turned to face his fear. Morgan had come home.

Mr. Sears might once have looked intimidating. He stood about six feet high, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. His light brown hair was flecked with gray and had thinned somewhat as he aged. His figure, once robust, now sagged slightly in the midsection, the result of drink and inactivity, both of which he considered to be hazards of his occupation, which saw him sitting several hours on airplanes and in executive boardrooms. He wore a pinstriped, button-down shirt that bulged noticeably at his stomach before disappearing beneath his jeans. He held a bag of luggage in either hand, which he handed to his wife as he strode over to Aidan, a look very much like paternal concern on his face.

"Let's have a look at you," the older man said, grasping Aidan's forearm with one hand and placing the other on his forehead.

Aidan's skin crawled where the man touched him, he wanted to bolt, but he could not--Morgan's grip on his arm made sure of that. He stood, breathing heavily and trying not to throw up while the man felt around his forehead, nodding thoughtfully and frowning. "Well, you are a little warm," Morgan decided. "You might be coming down with something. Best get upstairs and into bed; I'll be along to check on you in a little while."

_Check up on you_. Aidan knew what that meant. He stumbled backward on the first step as Morgan released him; turning, he scrambled up the stairs, feeling the man's eyes boring into his back. Gasping, fighting back tears, he entered his room and threw himself against the door, slamming it closed. Sweat and tears trickled down his face, his mind and heart were racing, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. He wasn't safe, there was no place to hide and the awful reality of what was about to happen was pounding insistently against his skull with each heartbeat.

_Save me!_ he cried silently at the ceiling, willing the thought to travel through it, beyond it, to anyone who could hear. _Don't let him do it to me again!_ There was no answer, but gradually Aidan felt the numbness descending upon him, the blessed darkness that was his mind's only refuge from the terror, a complete denial of emotion, of thought, of reality. Like a cloak, the dark void wrapped around his mind, silencing his fears. His surroundings began to seem like something from a dream; he looked down at his hands, which now seemed unnaturally small, as if seen from a great height. His mind had not been shut down; it had only removed itself from the immediate danger, leaving his body to work on automatic for the time being.

He watched, as if through a small window, as he climbed into bed and pull the covers over himself, startled at the blank expression on his face, at the robotic movement of his limbs. Presently, there was a knock on the door, and though Aidan's heart seized, it was from a distance.

In the rapidly-diminishing light, Aidan watched as Morgan entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him. He crept silently toward the bed on which the boy that was no longer himself lay motionless, face to the wall, and sat on the edge.

"Still warm?" the man asked, laying one hand on the boy's forehead. "Yes," he said in a low, husky voice after a moment. "You don't want to be under the covers when you're warm." He drew back the covers clumsily, depositing them at the foot of the bed.

"Better?" Morgan asked gruffly, laying a hand on the boy's forehead. "A little," he answered himself, "but you're still too warm. It's not healthy. Take off your shirt."

The boy on the bed stirred, and Aidan found himself wondering what was he was doing, until he saw that the boy who was not himself was doing as he was _told_, unbuttoning the short-sleeve shirt he wore and shrugging out of it, silent tears streaming down his face. _He's actually _doing _it!_ he thought. _Why? Doesn't he know what's going to happen?_ He felt a prickling sensation coming from somewhere behind his forehead; he tried to cry out a warning, but discovered he had no voice in this place, and a sudden thought came to him. _Maybe he knows he can't stop it..._

"That's better," the man in Aidan's vision breathed. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out his hand again, but instead of placing it on the boy's forehead, he rested it on the boy's stomach, breathing hard as he ran it up the boy's chest and back down again, stopping just above his waist.

The prickling sensation was growing stronger in Aidan's mind. He didn't want to see anymore, didn't want to watch was going to happen to the boy who was not him, but he couldn't help himself; he was transfixed. If only he could reach the man, stop him, wrench his filthy hand from boy, but he could not move, it was as if his limbs were stuck fast. Still he struggled, the fiery feeling in his mind growing, interfering with his concentration. He could not let this play out; _he_ had to stop it, even if the boy who was not him could not...

"Mm, you're still warm," the man whispered, his voice husky, inching his hand beneath the boy's jeans. _My_ jeans, came the sudden, jarring realization, he's doing it to _me!_ Suddenly, his vision collapsed around him as the prickling sensation inside his mind exploded into a fury like he'd never known before, blowing apart the darkness that was his shield and plunging him back into reality.

A searing pain shot through his arms and into the tips of his fingers, causing him to cry out. The air surrounding his hands began to shimmer like the hot afternoon air above baking pavement, taking on an orange glow as it did so. Morgan's hand on Aidan's stomach was suddenly gone, and the older man was cursing and waving it wildly while blowing on it, as if it had been singed. He looked at Aidan with a mixture of anger and fear on his face, taking a step backward as Aidan stood up to face him, heat radiating from his hands, his arms, his face, every inch of bare skin, twisting and warping the surrounding air.

Aidan hardly noticed as the burning sensation in his hands, in his mind, intensified; all he knew was that he wasn't going to take it anymore, he wasn't going to let the man continue to humiliate him, he was going to fight _back_! Even as he thought this, both hands burst forth in flames, and without pausing to think, uncaring as his nerves screamed in protest at the scorching pain, Aidan reached out toward Morgan and the flames leapt from his outstretched hand toward the older man. Morgan cried out in alarm as his clothes caught fire and he ran toward the bedroom door, shouting and beating frantically at the flames with one hand while he flung the door wide with the other.

Aidan's mind had crystallized on one thought as seven years' worth of pent up rage and guilt and humiliation now found an outlet: the bastard would _burn_, he would _pay_ for everything he'd done. He reached out with his other hand and the fire lashed through the air, curling whiplike around Morgan's leg as he attempted to flee into the hall, his shirt still smoking. The older man stumbled and fell as Aidan drew back his hand and the fiery whip with it, dragging the older man back into the room.

"Aidan, please," gasped Morgan, scrambling backward even as he was inexorably pulled forward, fear in his eyes. "Please."

At the same moment, Elisa appeared in the open doorway, looking alarmed. "_What_ is going in here?" she demanded.

As suddenly as it had come, the fiery rope wrapped around Morgan's leg vanished, leaving scorch marks on Morgan's jeans but with no other visible indication that it had ever been. The older man was panting, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his shirt charred and burned away over his chest, revealing raw, reddened skin underneath, gazing at Aidan with pure malevolence.

Stunned by what had just occurred, Aidan stumbled backward, landing on his bed and gazing in disbelief at his outstretched hands, which, aside from being slightly pink, bore no signs of the flame that had engulfed them.

"Are you two all right?" asked Elisa, glancing with concern first at Aidan, then at her husband. "What happened?" she asked, seeing his ruined shirt and rushing over to him.

"He...went crazy," Morgan said, wincing as he sat up. "He attacked me for no reason." Elisa turned to look at him, worry in her eyes.

"No," Aidan breathed, pointing a trembling finger at his assailant. "It was him. He was going to--"

A lump formed in his throat, choking his words; he could not admit his shame.

"We have to get you to the hospital," Elisa said to her husband, helping him to stand.

"I'm fine," Morgan insisted, grimacing. "Call the police."

"What? Why?"

"Why? Look what he did to me, Elisa! Look at my shirt! God only knows what would have happened if you hadn't shown up!"

Elisa glanced sharply at Aidan. "But why did he attack you? Surely he had a reason."

_Yes, I _did _have a reason!_ Aidan wanted to scream. _You don't know what he's done to me, what he's taken from me, how I can never,_ ever _be whole again! How I flinch from human contact, how I can't even trust my own friends, how I wake up, terrified, in the middle of the night and all I can see is his face, all I can feel are his hands, all I can hear is his voice as he destroys me! You don't know!_ But he still could not speak, only stare, numbly, mutely as Morgan shook his head.

"No," the older man lied, glaring at Aidan. "He just snapped; he's probably always been unstable. Call the police. We'll lock him in until they arrive."

"But--"

"He's not safe, Elisa," Morgan said, hobbling over to the staircase. "If he attacked me, he could attack you, or the neighbors, or anyone!"

Reluctantly, Elisa turned.

_ No! Don't believe him!_ Aidan tried to yell, but all he could manage was a hoarse grunt.

"See?" Morgan asked. "Mad." He grimaced again as his wife, looking back anxiously at Aidan, helped him out into the hall. Aidan watched the door shut and heard the lock click and his stomach clenched horribly. The police--he was going to be arrested for what he'd done.

_But what _did _I do?_ he asked himself. That was easy; he'd attacked his legal guardian, the man who was supposed to look out for him. He wondered what kind of a story Morgan would tell the authorities. I shouldn't have tried to stop him, Aidan thought miserably, starting to panic, I should have just let him...he shuddered.

_No!_ an angry voice shouted inside his mind, recoiling from the thought.

Yes, he insisted. Yes, because now I'm going to lose my only home, my only family, my only friends, everything!

_But I was only protecting myself._

The police wouldn't see it that way. How many people could shoot fire from their hands, and without even a mark to show for it? He would be sent to prison, where the kinds of things that Morgan did happened regularly anyway; he hadn't saved himself, only condemned himself to further, and even worse, torture than what occurred here.

Unless he left.

The thought terrified him, but he didn't have any choice; he'd made the decision to save himself and now he would have to see it through. He would have to run, as far and as fast as he could, until he found a place to hide from the police, from Morgan, from all of the unhappy memories of this place. And he had no time to pack, no time to take anything but what he wore. He retrieved his shirt from the bed and put it on, eyes darting sadly around his room. He wished he could take something more, but time was critical.

Slowly, forcing himself to remain calm, beating down the sickening anxiety that was doing its best to overwhelm him, he turned and walked to the small window, every creaking step causing his heart to skip a beat. It would be a tight fit, he thought, gazing out of the window, but he could make it to the roof above the garage, and from there to the ground and freedom. Opening the window, Aidan let the cool evening breeze wash over him for a moment before heaving himself through. As it turned out, it was more than a tight fit, it was nearly impossible, and some of Aidan's skin was left behind on the sharp edge of the windowsill; still, he managed to make it through, dropping to roof and crouching low, afraid a neighbor might see him and call out, alerting the man in the house below.

Carefully, he crawled over to the edge of the roof, looking down into the front yard. Heart pounding, a thrill of adrenaline coursing through his veins, he leaped, landing with a thud that rattled every bone in his body. Scrambling to his feet, Aidan ran without looking back.


	2. Flight

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations.  If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE:  I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own.  If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

TWO

      It felt as though he'd been running forever, driven by the insistent, repetitive desire in his head to get away, to get as far away as possible.  His lungs burned, every breath was an agony, his muscles fairly screamed with the exertion, but he could not stop, he would not stop.  He ran, not just to distance himself from the house and the threat of apprehension, but to escape the jumbled emotions that roiled and seethed just below the surface of his mind: fear, guilt, panic, sorrow, shame--all of these threatening to overwhelm him if he stopped.  Street after street passed by, nothing more than blurs in Aidan's awareness as he pressed on in the fading light.  It was not until he crossed the bridge and entered the park that he finally gave out, collapsing against the trunk of a large willow tree, gasping and sobbing convulsively, unable to continue.

      Gradually, as Aidan's pulse slowed and the insistent thump of his heartbeat quieted, he began to realize the enormity of what he'd done.  For seven years, Aidan had lived in the Sears house, captive to Morgan's attentions, loathing himself more and more each time for not fighting back, for letting the man have his way.  Every time was worse, not just the anxiety leading up to it, but the aftermath, the horrible, wrenching sorrow as Aidan felt his innocence, his hope--every good thing about him--leached away, leaving a gaping void where they had been.  How he had longed to tell someone, Elisa, the social worker, his friends--but Morgan told him he would lose the only home he had if that happened.  So he had kept quiet, but a voice in the back of his mind had screamed and railed at every outrage, growing louder and more insistent with every passing year, every occurrence, until, finally in one literally explosive outburst, Aidan had fought back.

      To the west, the enormous ruddy disc of the sun had already sunk halfway below the horizon in the pale sky, throwing a rust-colored light over the surrounding landscape and casting the scattered wisps of cloud overhead into shadow, so that they looked like trails of smoke rising from a burning sky.  Aidan wiped his wet face with the back of one hand, staring curiously at the other in the fading orange light.  The setting sun had imbued his skin with the same fiery glow it had just before it burst into flames in his bedroom.  He flexed his fingers experimentally, wondering if the fire that had poured from his fingers had been real.  But how could it have been?  In the twilight, his hands looked unreal, and the house seemed so far away after his seeming marathon, that he began to doubt.

      A fluttering of wings overhead drew his attention upward, away from his hands.  Perched on a lower branch of the tree, gazing down solemnly at him, was an owl.  This by itself was hardly abnormal, owls being nocturnal, but the envelope clutched tightly in its beak was another matter.  Curiosity momentarily distracting him from his other feelings, Aidan got to his feet, staring inquisitively at the bird which was now only a foot away.  It regarded him impassively, its large eyes unblinking.  Tenatively, Aidan reached out a hand for it, expecting it to fly away; but instead, the owl dropped the envelope into his outstretched hand and began preening itself.

      Aidan stared, bemused, first at the owl, which was now ignoring him completely, and then at the envelope.  In the last rays of fading sunlight, Aidan could just make out an address written neatly in purple ink on the front:

      Mr. A. Hayes

      5 Arshield Close

      London,

      London SW15 1, GB

      Even more puzzled than ever, Aidan looked up at the owl.  "Who...?" he began, but with a sudden rustle of feathers, the owl took flight, gliding silently over the grassy field, out of the park.  Aidan watched it go, thoroughly confused.  Who did he know that delivered letters by owl?  And how would they know to find him here? 

Across the street, a lamp flared to life.  Aidan trotted in its direction, his mind filled with questions.  The only good thing, he reflected as he checked to ensure no cars were coming before crossing the street, was that it kept him from thinking about other things.  He was only dimly aware of his feelings, his barely-supressed panic at having no food and no place to go, his confusion at the night's events; everything was overridden by his desire to know more about the strange letter.

      The harsh light of the street lamp bathed the envelope in a yellow light as Aidan held it over his head.  The purple ink sparkled as he turned the envelope this way and that, attempting to glimpse its contents.  On the back of the envelope was a purple wax seal, in which two stylized letter M's had been impressed, but there were no other external indicators of what was inside.  Finally, Aidan gave up and tore the envelope open, extracting a single sheet of parchment.  Written on the front of the page, in the same neat handwriting as the address on the envelope, were the words:

13 June 2024

Dear Mr. Hayes,

      It has been brought to our attention that you performed a highly-complex, highly-dangerous Focused Incendiary Enchantment at your place of residence at approximately seven minutes past seven this evening, and that a member of the non-magical community was its intended target.

      While no lasting harm was afflicted on the victim, we are required to inform you that your actions were in violation of both the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry (Paragraph C) and section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy.  Further, although both documents provide for the use of magic in potentially life-threatening circumstances, we have judged that your situation did not meet the definition of such an "exceptional condition" as set forth in clause seven of the aforementioned Decree.  Therefore, pursuant to Paragraph C of the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, you are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Ministry of Magic representatives will be dispatched shortly to confiscate and destroy your wand.

      You may request, in writing, a hearing to appeal this decision within thirty days of your receipt of this notice.  If no response is received within that timeframe, the decision will be considered to be final and binding.

      Regards,

      J. Everard O'Malley

_      Improper Use of Magic Office,_

      Ministry of Magic

      Aidan read through the letter twice to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.  _It has to be a bad joke_, he thought angrily, crumpling the parchment into a ball.  Everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, although Aidan had, when he was younger, fervently wished there was; magical powers might have spared him some torment, except that apparently what Morgan had been doing to him didn't qualify as an exceptional situation giving him the right to defend himself.  They obviously didn't know how much it had cost him, all those years, doing nothing at all to prevent it.  He shook his head, fighting down the rising storm of emotions, glancing down as the smell of smoke reached his nose.

      The letter was smoldering at the edges, curling and blackening as it did so.  Startled, Aidan dropped the parchment, which continued to smoke as it fluttered lazily to the ground.  He had been doing it again, without thinking: the Incidendiary Enchantment.  _No,_ he thought, shaking his head and backing fearfully away from the parchment as if it was a poisonous snake, _there's no such thing as magic._  No matter how much he wanted it to be real, it wasn't.  He'd learned that nothing was going to intervene in his life to make it better, nothing was going to save him.  There was nothing special about him.  _Except that I can start fires with my bare hands..._

      Aidan took a deep, steadying breath, tearing his gaze away from the charred parchment that lay facedown on the pavement.  Instead he looked up at the deep blue sky, in which the stars were already winking into existence, their fires reduced to the merest pinpricks of cold light by the intervening distance.  A sudden sence of peace descended upon him as he gazed at the tiny lights twinkling silently down at him, as if they were the watchful eyes of old friends who came out, night after night, to check up on him.  He wondered why people went to so much trouble to blot them out, with their harsh, glaring city lights, thus depriving themselves of the security that came with knowing that, even in the darkest night, a person was not alone.

      _Of course, probably not everyone feels that way,_ he reasoned, _only mentally unstable people who half-believe in the impossible._  For the third time that day, Aidan stared at his hands, but they revealed no more than they had before.  He wondered if it was a dream, if he was asleep in his bed, but no amount of pinching had any effect, and he had no desire to try some of the more extreme tests, such as leaping from the bridge to see if he awoke before he hit the ground.  He sighed, disappointed and suddenly weary.  It would have been nice to discover the day's events--indeed, the whole of his life with Morgan--had been only a dream.

      Sighing again, he trekked back into the park, to the large willow tree, and surveyed it thoughtfully.  If he could climb up into the crook where all the branches came together, he would have a pretty secure spot to fall asleep.  It would be uncomfortable, but he would be well-hidden by the low-hanging branches, unless someone came to stand right at the foot of the tree.  Grabbing at the branch on which the owl had landed, Aidan hoisted himself into the tree, settling in the spot he had chosen.  He felt tired; the events of the day had been a strain on both body and mind, and, despite the hard wood pressing against his back, he soon drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

      Only to be roused by a sharp pain in his side.

      "He's alive after all," someone said in a satisfied tone as he opened his eyes blearily.  His whole body felt stiff and cold, and he wondered why until the branches of the tree resolved themselves in his vision.  He winced as he sat forward, rubbing his sore neck while his back complained loudly, with several sharp pains, that it wanted a nice, soft bed from now on thank you very much.

      "Mornin'," said a cheerful female voice, nearly startling Aidan out of the tree.  He glanced down to see a young woman dressed in flowing robes staring up at him, her short, bright, spiky blonde hair glinting in the first rays of morning sunlight.  She held a long, thin piece of polished wood in her hand, and kept it pointed directly at him.  "No sudden moves, now," she cautioned, "although I'd say you're not gonna be in much shape for that, anyway, after spending all night in a tree."  She grimaced sympathetically as Aidan attempted to stand up, wincing again.

      "Who're you?" Aidan croaked, his throat parched.

      "Angela Parish," she introduced herself, "or Angie for short.  And you're Aidan Hayes."

      "Your accent's funny," Aidan said blankly, his mind still sluggish with interrupted sleep.  How did she know his name?  And why was she brandishing that stick at him as if it was a weapon?

      "I'm from America," she explained.  "Only just moved here two years ago."

      Aidan blinked, his train of thought slowly building up steam.  "America?  What d'you want with me?"

      "Well, the Minister'd like to have a word with you," she replied conversationally, "and so I'm here to um...'fetch' you," she finished, trying to affect something of a British accent and failing at it.  "How was that?"

      Aidan ignored her question, focusing instead on her earlier statement, suddenly fearful.  "The _Prime_ Minister?"  Had his attack on Morgan gotten the attention of the Prime Minister himself?

      Angie laughed, which only served to irk Aidan.  "No," she said, "the Minister of Magic."

      Aidan blinked.  She was a lunatic; she _must_ be, talking in some strange accent about magic, waving her stick in the air like that, and dressed in robes--who in their right mind would wear robes in public?  He edged away from her, trying not to do anything that would cause her to climb up the tree after him.

      "Goin' somewhere?" she asked lightly.

      Aidan shook his head.

      "Good," she said.  "Why don't you come down, then?"

      "No, thanks," Aidan said coldly, hoping she would get the message.  _Go away,_ he thought fiercely.

      "That wasn't a request so much as a chance, Aidan."

      "A chance for what?"

      "For you to avoid _this,_" she replied, waving the polished wooden stick at him.

      "What th--!" Aidan cried out as he suddenly found himself weightless, the bottoms of his shoes scraping the branches of the willow tree as he floated over them, following the motion described by Angie's stick--magic wand, Aidan realized--until he was deposited gently onto the grass.

      "How...?" he breathed, scrambling backwards until his back was against the trunk of the tree, all the while staring at her in disbelief.

      She laughed again, advancing on him, wand outstretched menacingly.  "Magic."

      Breathing fast, Aidan held up his hands, expecting to see them wreathed in flames, but they looked the same as always.

      "Ah, ah," Angie clucked, wagging a forefinger at him.  "I've heard what you can do with those."

      "Not on purpose," he said defensively, even as he tried desperately to will them to burn.  But the surge of fury which seemed to be requisite to their ignition eluded him, buried underneath a sudden fear of what Angie would do to him.

      She paused, a foot away, gesturing toward his sides with her wand.  "Then let's try to avoid any accidents.  Put 'em down."

      Slowly, Aidan lowered his hands.

      "Good boy," Angie said, cocking her head toward the street, where a bright maroon car that resembled a Rolls-Royce was parked.  "This way." 

      "Are you a witch?" Aidan asked her carefully, remaining where he was.

      "Of course," she replied casually, as if being a witch was the most common thing in the world.  "Aren't you a wizard?"

      _Am I?_ Aidan wondered.  _What am I?_  Out loud, he said, "I don't know."

      "I'd say that anyone who could produce an Incendiary Enchantment was a wizard," she remarked wryly.  "Especially if you nearly barbecue your dad in the process."

      "He's _not_ my dad!" Aidan shouted, the fury he had been seeking moments earlier rising unbidden within him now.  "He's a filthy, disgusting man, and he deserved what he got!"  His cheeks were flushed, his brow was burning, and as he looked down, he saw the faintest orange glow surrounding his hands, which had been clenched into fists.

      Angie evidently noticed this, too, because she apologized hastily.  "I'm sorry," she said, and she sounded like she meant it.  "I didn't know."

      Aidan wanted to be angry with her, but he could not bring himself to take his fury out on her.  It wasn't Angie that he was angry at, anyway, it was Morgan.  "Forget it," he muttered, looking away, the rage leaking out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an empty void.  He was suddenly very tired.

      "I still have to take you in," Angie said tentatively.

      "I know," Aidan answered wearily.  "I'll go quietly."  At least it wasn't the police who were after him, although Aidan didn't know precisely what this Minister of Magic wanted with him.

      Angie considered him for a moment, then let her wand drop to her side.  "I'll trust you," she decided, holding out her free hand.  Aidan took it and she led him to the car, where the driver, a man dressed in an impeccably-pressed emerald suit, waited.

      "Where're we going?" he asked as he climbed into the back seat of the long, elegant vehicle.

      "Downtown London," Angie answered, settling into the passenger seat up front.  The driver closed both doors firmly and strode around the front of the car.  "To the Ministry of Magic."

      It was the strangest ride Aidan had ever experienced.  The car sped through the streets, its driver seemingly oblivious to the speed limit, traffic signals, parked cars, pedestrians--yet they never struck anything or anyone, nor did anyone seem to notice the violently maroon car as it passed by.  Behind them, the sun was halfway over the horizon, climbing steadily into the ruddy sky.  Aidan was normally a morning person, but he found it hard to be excited about the idea of a new day, considering everything that had happened.

      "We're here," Angie announced at last, and Aidan looked up from his hands, which had become something of an obsession for him since last night, to see they had arrived in the middle of what must have been the most run-down neighborhood in all of London.  A few worn brick buildings surrounded them, their facades badly crumbling, while in the street several rusting cars had been parked haphazardly.  A few pedestrians walked hurriedly up the dirty sidewalk, looking neither left nor right, but staring fixedly ahead as if refusing to acknowledge the existence of such an unwholsome place.  It suddenly dawned on Aidan how easy it would be for any number of people to overlook the existence of magic by their sheer stubborn unwillingness to see it; the question of why he never noticed magic before now had been bothering him since they left the park.

      "Don't worry," Angie assured him as the car rolled silently past a dirty man who was swaying drunkenly on the sidewalk, "it's just a front." 

      The street ended abruptly at a red brick wall, which evidently belonged to a large, abandoned warehouse of some kind.  The windows high overhead were dusty, and some of them had been cracked and broken, probably by the same people who had tagged the wall with large, scrawling graffiti.  A forlorn-looking telephone booth stood to one side, in front of an alley containing an overflowing dumpster.  The car rolled up to the telephone booth and stopped.

      Aidan began to unbuckle his seatbelt, expecting to get out, but Angie turned and shook her head.  "Watch," she said.

      The driver reached up and pressed a button on a small device affixed to the rear-view mirror; the next second, the bricks in the warehouse wall were shifting and scraping, folding in on themselves to reveal a dark passage that slanted downward.  The car entered the passageway, which sealed itself after them, plunging them into darkness until the driver switched the headlamps on.  They were in some kind of winding tunnel that led down into the earth, how far Aidan couldn't tell, but gradually the tunnel leveled off and a short distance away, golden light spilled through an arched opening, which led into the most exquisite parking structure Aidan had ever seen.  Two rows of gleaming cars, in all colors and sizes, and all of them very expensive looking, ran the length of the garage, but it was not a garage in the common sense: two massive golden chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, filled with hundreds upon hundreds of flickering candles whose light glinted from the silver and gold patterns inlaid in the marble floor.  The driver carefully backed the car into one of the vacant spaces on the right hand side before helping them out of the vehicle.

      "Beats the hell out of anything we've got back home," Angie said, yawning and stretching as she looked around.

      Aidan shook his head in wonderment; he was willing to bet even the royal family didn't have access to the kind of money it must have taken to build a place like this.

      "Let's go," Angie said briskly, following the driver toward a door in the far wall.  They emerged in a small hallway, where several people were milling about, or entering or exiting the nearly twenty lifts that took up one wall.  As each lift came to rest with a clatter, its golden grilles would rattle open and people--witches and wizards, all of them, Aidan surmised with a thrill of excitement--would spill out.  "We get on one of these," Angie said, grabbing Aidan by the shoulder before he could wander away.  "Thank you, James," she added haughtily to the driver, "that will be all."

      The driver nodded slightly, looking annoyed, and strode away.  "His real name's Prang," Angie told Aidan as they pressed forward with the other witches and wizards waiting for the lift, "but I love to make fun of him; you know, pretend to be snooty British royalty and order him around.  No offense," she added hurriedly.

      But Aidan's mind was reeling too fast for him to pay much attention to her statement.  The grille clattered shut, and with a shudder, the lift started upward.  Aidan glanced around at the various other occupants, who were standing quietly, or checking their watches, or talking in low voices amongst themselves.  Some of them were dressed in robes of various colors, blue and scarlet and black, and some in suits of similar color; these last Aidan would never have known were wizards, had they not been here, in the Ministry of Magic.

      "Level seven," said a cool female voice, seemingly from the lift itself, "Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch Leage Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, Triwizard Tournament Headquarters, and Ludicrous Patents Office."

      Aidan blinked.  He had understood less than half of what the voice was talking about; but apparently, everyone else knew.  As the grilles slid open with a metallic bang, a few of the witches and wizards in scarlet robes exited.  After a moment, the grilles crashed shut and the lift vibrated as it rose upward once again.

      "Level six, Department of Magical Transport, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Center."  Aidan looked around, wondering who had made sense of that gibberish, but no one moved and the lift continued upward without stopping.

      Several of the important-looking witches and wizards in suits got off on level five, which had something to do with "International Magical Cooperation."  Only Aidan, Angie, and three others remained on the lift as it shuddered upward.

      Level four had something to do with magical creatures, but no one got off there.  On level three, however, everyone but Aidan and Angie exited the lift.  He looked inquiringly at her.

      "Straight to the top," she said, pointing upward.

      "Level two," the cool female voice intoned, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."  The lift continued upward until the voice announced, finally, "Level one," and left it at that.  The lift doors rattled open for the last time, and Angie and Aidan stepped out into a short corridor with a marble floor.  A door inset with frosted glass stood closed at the end of the hall, and golden letters inlaid in the glass spelled out:

      PERCY WEASLEY

      Minister of Magic

      Angie led him down the hall to the door, opening it and ushering him inside.  On the other side of the door was a small carpeted room, with several chairs arranged on one wall, opposite a large, floor-to-ceiling window that looked down on London--_but aren't we undergound?_ Aidan wondered--and a desk at the far end, at which a thin, severe-looking old witch sat, her silver hair pulled back into a tight bun.  She surveyed them both impassively over her square spectacles as they approached.  Behind her, in one corner of the room, was a second door, made of polished oak, which was also closed.  A bookshelf stood in the other corner of the room, and Aidan could make out some of the titles on the spines: "Concessions in International Magical Law", "Recent Developments in Muggle Relations", and "Collected Judgments of The International Confederation of Wizards" were among them.

      "This is the boy the Minister wanted to see," Angie told the old witch.

      "Very well," the witch said shortly, waving at the chairs.  "Have a seat over there."

      Rather than sit, Aidan wandered over to the window, through which he could see the street some distance below, but it wasn't the same street as the one they'd come in on.  This street was in the middle of an industrial area and was packed full of cars and people.  The sun was now well up, and its golden yellow light reflected from the glass of the buildings across the way, while large, puffy clouds slowly rolled by overhead.

      "Aren't we underground?" he asked as Angie joined him at the window.

      She nodded.  "Magical windows, of course."

      "The Minister will see you now," the old witch announced, and at the same moment, Aidan heard the oak door of the Minister's office open.  He turned around to see the Minister of Magic, a tall, slender man with thinning red hair and glasses beckon to them from his office.

      "Go on," Angie said.  "It's you he wants to see."

      Suddenly nervous, Aidan swallowed and  walked over to the tall man, who smiled and said, "You'll be Aidan Hayes, then?  Good.  Come on in."  He stood to one side so Aidan could enter his office, closing the door behind him. 

      The office of the Minister of Magic was a large, dark room with plush, deep carpeting.  The primary source of light came from an enormous fireplace embedded in one wall, where a fire was crackling merrily, despite the heat outside.  Several paintings and portraits adorned the walls, and, much to Aidan's surprise, the occupants of the latter were looking at him with interest, waving or nodding in acknowledgment.  A large, elaborate wooden desk took up one end of the room; every corner had been carved into the shape of an animal--lion, badger, raven, and serpent--which supported the desk proper.  A bookcase, similar to the one outside, stood behind the desk, filled with books.

      "Have a seat," the Minister invited, indicating the two plush leather armchairs that stood facing the desk.  Hesitantly, Aidan sank into one as the Minister sat on the edge of his desk, his glasses reflecting the orange light of the fireplace as he regarded Aidan thoughtfully.  "Do you know who I am?" he asked Aidan at length.

      "The Minister of Magic," Aidan replied hoarsely, his face flushing under the man's gaze.

      The Minister nodded slowly.  "And what is it that I do?"

      "I don't know," answered Aidan, wondering where this line of questioning would end.  The chair felt overlarge, making him feel very small by comparison; this, combined with his ignorance of the wizarding world, left Aidan feeling very much like a child, a feeling he hated.

      "In the most basic sense, I am the head of the magical community," the Minister said.  "It's a bit more complicated than that, but that sums it up.  I oversee the day-to-day affairs of the wizarding world, as it exists in Britain."

      "Like the Prime Minister," Aidan murmured, remembering his earlier conversation with Angie.

      "In a way," said Minister Weasley.  "But I can assure you, the Prime Minister has never had to deal with some of the things I handle on a daily basis."

      "Like what?" Aidan asked, curious despite his uncertainty.

      "Petitions from vampires to be given full 'human' status, along with the appertaining rights; questions about werewolf legislation and its enforcement," the Minster said, rising and walking around to the back of his desk, where a large leather executive chair was situated.  "Wizard children who manage to cast extremely complex Incendiary Enchantments and use them to attack their legal guardians," the Minister added pointedly, settling into his chair.  "Things of that nature."

      "It wasn't my fault," Aidan said.  "I didn't know--I didn't even try.  And anyway, he was going to..."  He trailed off, unable to articulate to the Minister of Magic exactly what Morgan had intended.

      "As to that, you are correct," the Minister said, "you didn't know."  Aidan looked up at him curiously.  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Aidan, to try and find out why you didn't know."  He stared inquisitively at Aidan.  "Did you know, for instance, that wizard children usually begin their magical education at the age of eleven?"

      Aidan shook his head.

      "Did you know that all wizard children, upon reaching the age of eleven, are accepted at one of the European wizarding schools and are notified of this acceptance by owl?"

      "No," Adam answered.  "I've never gotten an owl until last night."

      "I see," the Minister said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  "There seems to have been an oversight in your case, Aidan.  You should have received your owl notifying you of your acceptance at Hogwarts or another wizarding school when you were eleven.  For some reason, you didn't, and I intend to find out why."

      "Okay," Aidan said, uncertain of how to respond.

      "I have sent for the Headmistress of Hogwarts, the largest wizard school in Great Britain," the Minister continued, leaning back in his chair.  "Hopefully, she will be able to shed some light on the situation.  Ah, I believe that's her now," he said, rising as someone knocked on the closed office door.  "Come in!" he called.

      The severe witch poked her head through door as she opened it.  "Headmistress McGonagall is here to see you."

      "Send her in," the Minister said, rubbing his hands together.  A moment later, a formidable looking witch in dark black robes and matching pointed hat strode through the door, glancing briefly at Aidan before nodding to the Minister of Magic.

      "Minister," she said curtly.

      "Minerva," the Minister replied evenly.  "Have a seat, won't you?"  He watched as she sat down on the edge of the vacant chair in front of his desk before sitting down himself.  "You know why I've called you here?" he asked.

      "I am aware of the reason," she replied stiffly.

      "It looks as though you've missed one," Minister Weasley said calmly, indicating Aidan with a tip of his head.  "As you know, last night the boy produced an Incendiary Enchantment in front of a Muggle."

      McGonagall nodded, her expression stony.

      "As this was a blatant violation of both the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry and the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy, Jesse O'Malley rightly attempted to expel Aidan.  And do you know what he discovered when he made that attempt?"

      McGonagall's look grew stonier, so that her face appeared to be carved from living rock, but she remained silent.  
      "He discovered that Aidan was never enrolled at Hogwarts, or at any other wizarding school.  Why do you suppose that is?  Did the owl with his acceptance letter get blown off course, or was it struck by lighting, by any chance?"

      "No," the Headmistress replied tersely, staring at Aidan with piercing, green-gold eyes.  "No owl was sent."  Aidan looked away, afraid that the older woman could see straight into his mind, exposing the darkness and fire that raged there, locked in mortal combat, to her stern gaze.

      Weasley looked surprised at McGongall's admission.  "Why not?" he asked, frowning.  "Why wasn't this boy sent a letter of acceptance on his eleventh birthday like all of the other wizarding children?"

      "Because he was not accepted at Hogwarts," she replied coolly, her stern features softening slightly as she regarded Aidan kindly through her silver-rimmed spectacles.

      "What are you saying?" the Minister demanded.  "Have you suddenly developed some standards, Minerva, after all your talk about equal education for all wizard children?"

      "No," McGonagall snapped, suddenly frowning, her nostrils flaring dangerously, "that is _not_ what I'm saying.  The boy was not accepted at Hogwarts because he is not a wizard."        


	3. Sorrow

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

THREE

      A stunned silence followed McGonagall's revelation.  Aidan felt his heart sieze within him; if he was not a wizard, then what was he?  Angie had seemed so certain that he was that Aidan hadn't even considered that he might not be, yet McGonagall was equally as certain that he wasn't.  And, after all, he had not received any owls on his eleventh birthday, like all of the other wizard children, so it seemed as if McGonagall knew the truth of what he was.

      Minister Weasley looked positively flummoxed.  He stared at McGonagall incredulously for a moment, and she returned his gaze imperiously.  Finally the Minister found his voice.

      "What do you mean, he's not a wizard?" he asked.  "He performed the Incendiary Enchantment, didn't he?"

      "What do you want, Percy?" the Headmistress exploded, standing up.  "Would you like me to admit that Hogwarts made a mistake, that we let a student slip through the cracks?  Well, I won't do it.  In one thousand years, we have never yet failed to identify a wizard child, no matter where they were located or what their circumstances were."

      "If he's not a wizard, then what is he?" the Minister demanded, also standing and leaning across his desk, the color of his face beginning to match that of his hair as he raised his voice to match McGonagall's.

      Aidan leaned forward expectantly.

      "I don't know," the Headmistress replied softly, glancing sympathetically at Aidan and sinking back into her chair.  Aidan, too, sagged back into his chair, disappointed; he had so hoped that she had all the answers.  "I know only that our means of identifying a witch or wizard child have always been reliable."

      "Until now," the Minister agreed, sighing.  He removed his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.  "Whatever he is, he's clearly in possession of magical abilities, Minerva.  He needs to be educated."

      "I agree," the Headmistress replied.

      "Good.  Then he is your responsibility," Weasley said with a note of finality, replacing his glasses.  "See to it that he receives a proper wizarding education." 

      "I need hardly remind you, Minister, that the term is nearly over."

      "Then he can use the summer holiday to catch up with his peers," the Minister snapped, "under your expert tutelage.  Equal education for all wizard children, right, Minerva?"

      McGonagall stiffened in her seat but merely said, "Very well."

      The Minister turned his attention to Aidan.  "And remember, you are not to use magic outside of your schooling until you come of age, and even then, you may not use it in front of Muggles.  Do you understand?"

      Aidan nodded mutely.  Neither the Minister nor the Headmistress seemed to like each other very much, but they had just agreed on a course of action that sounded like it would keep him away from Arshield Close for at least a year, and he didn't want to say something that might cause them to change their minds.

      "Good," said the Minister, brightening considerably as Aidan and the Headmistress stood.  "Thank you, Minerva.  I want one more word with Aidan."

      The Headmistress nodded curtly.  "I shall wait in the other room."  She nodded again.  "Minister."  With a swish of her long robes, she had gone.

      "Don't let her know I said this," the Minister said in an undertone, watching her go, "but she's not as bad as she seems.  We may not always agree, but she has the best interests of the students in mind, always."

      "You didn't keep me just to tell me that," Aidan said nervously.

      "No," the Minister said, shaking his head and looking earnestly at Aidan.  "It's likely you'll be away from your family for at least year, although students are allowed to return home during the holidays.  I don't need to tell you, I think, that you've got two years of catching up to do in the space of one summer.  Do you think you can handle it?"

      Aidan nodded.  "I don't mind."

      "Good.  Then you need only inform your guardians of your planned extended absence."

      "I don't think they'll mind, either," Aidan said softly, remembering the look of hatred on Morgan's face and Elisa's ready acceptance of her husband's story.

      Minister Weasley frowned.  "You needn't worry about the attack on your adoptive father, Aidan, I'm sure it was quite unintentional, particularly since you've never been properly instructed in the use of your gifts.  Their memories have been modified; they won't remember."

      Aidan felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders; he nearly collapsed at its sudden departure.  "What about the police?"

      "When they arrived, they found that Mr. Sears had scalded himself while cooking," the Minister said mildly.  "Nothing more.  They were a bit put out, I'm afraid, but there was no lasting harm done."

      Relief flooded through Aidan, causing him to feel light-headed and giddy.  He suddenly realized he was ravenous, having eaten nothing since his party the previous day.  "Thank you," he whispered.

      Minister Weasley smiled.  "A small matter, to be sure.  I wish I had more of them.  At any rate, you can go home without fear of reprisal.  Just don't let it happen again."

      Go home without fear? Aidan thought.  No, he could never do that, not so long as Morgan was still there, but at least Elisa wouldn't think he was a maniac anymore.  He left the Minister's office feeling a curious mixture of happiness and sorrow.  McGonagall and Angie were waiting for him.

      "You look a bit peaked," the Headmistress observed.  "When was the last time you ate?"

      Angie clapped a hand over her mouth.  "Oh, no!" she exclaimed.  "I completely forgot--you haven't had breakfast!  I'm so sorry," she said fervently to Aidan.

      "It's all right," Aidan said.  "I wasn't exactly hungry before."

      McGonagall looked at Angie sternly.  "Still, you might have asked," she scolded.  "Even the Minister can wait for thirty minutes while the boy has a decent breakfast.  Come along," she said to Aidan.  "There's a commissary on the lobby level."

      "I'll come with you," Angie said swiftly.  "To the next level," she amended, seeing the steely glint in the eyes of the Headmistress.  "I've--got to report in anyway."

      They took the lift down to the second level, where Angie said a hasty good-bye.  Aidan, although he felt more relaxed than he had been in the past twenty-four hours, was nonetheless uncertain about spending the next two months with the stern Headmistress, no matter what reassurances the Minister of Magic might give.  McGonagall was like the formidable grandmother he never had, and he was afraid to ask what she had in mind for him, lest she snap at him, too.

      The lift let them off at the lobby level, and Aidan was hard pressed to keep up with McGonagall as she strode across the small hallway toward two doors on the wall opposite the one he and Angie had entered earlier in the day.  Through one door, Aidan saw a glimpse of a long hallway, with fireplaces staggered at intervals on two walls, and a golden fountain spouting water in the distance.  McGonagall took the second doorway, which led them down an even smaller hallway and into a large room, rather like a medieval banquet hall, with tall windows high up on the far wall allowing slanting shafts of sunlight to filter down onto the many polished wooden tables and accompanying benches arranged in three rows on the marble floor.  Another enormous, exquisitely-wrought golden chandelier was suspended from the arched ceiling over the exact center of the room, and the ceiling itself seemed to fade in and out of existence as they walked, changing to resemble the sky outside, bright blue with the occasional puffy cloud scudding by overhead.  Aidan was distracted from marveling at it all by the smell of food wafting to his nostrils, causing his stomach to rumble insistently.

      "Take a plate," McGonagall instructed him, pointing to a marble sculpture on one the nearby wall, which had been carved in the likeness of a beautiful woman with flowing hair and gown.  In its outstretched arms was a golden plate, on which a fork, a knife, and crystal goblet and a glossy purple napkin had been neatly arranged.  Aidan saw that there were several such sculptures scattered down the length of the wall, each carved in a different likeness (one reminded him strongly of Master Yoda), but all with outstretched hands on which a golden plate rested. 

      Aidan approached the statue of the woman, who looked so lifelike as she smiled benignly down at him, that he hesitated for a moment before taking the plate, nearly spilling its contents as another, identical plate immediately appeared in its place.  McGonagall took this one and led him to the closest table, which was unoccupied.  Aidan sat on the hard wooden bench and she sat across from him, placing her goblet and implements on the table and draping her napkin across her lap.  Aidan did the same, looking around expectantly for a waiter or waitress, but there seemed to be none, only a few other witches and wizards eating and talking quietly or sipping coffee while reading a newspaper.  He turned back to McGonagall, nonplussed.

      "You may order anything you like for breakfast," she told him, "just speak slowly and clearly."

      Aidan stared at her blankly.  Speak slowly and clearly to whom?

      "Come, now," she said, a touch of impatience in her voice.  "What do you usually have for breakfast?"

      "Um, cereal and milk?"  Quite suddenly, a bowl of what appeared to be corn flakes materialized on the table, accompanied by a tall glass pitcher of milk.  Aidan blinked.  Plates and goblets, and now food--how many things just magically appeared on a whim in the wizarding world, anyway? 

      "Coffee," McGongall said to her plate, "black."  A steaming mug of coffee appeared.  "I've already eaten," she told him, clasping the mug in both hands, "but I daresay I'll need more of this before the day is through.  Either this, or a tall brandy."  She nodded at Aidan's cereal.  "Eat."

      Hesitantly, Aidan poured milk over his bowl of cereal and scooped some of it into his spoon, eyeing it dubiously.  Did wizards eat something as mundane as corn flakes?

      "It's not poison," McGonagall said impatiently.

      Cautiously, Aidan swallowed the spoonful of cereal and found out that wizards did, indeed, eat something as ordinary as corn flakes; they must, for the corn flakes tasted just as corn flakes should, and, as near as Aidan could tell, possessed no magical qualities.  He snorted, nearly choking on the cereal as he realized the absurdity of anticipating magical corn flakes, but he didn't really know what to expect, after all.  The whole wizarding world was completely new to him.

      "You should probably have some juice, too," McGonagall remarked, watching Aidan scarf down a second bowl of cereal after it had magically refilled itself, "just to round it out a bit."  Obediently, orange juice bubbled up into Aidan's goblet.  He took a long drink and sighed contentedly.

      "Thanks."

      McGonagall nodded briefly and sipped at her coffee.  "After this, we will visit your home so that you can pack your clothes," she said.  "And we will inform your guardians of your planned absence."

      The contented feeling left as quickly as it had come.  The last thing Aidan wanted to do was go back and face Morgan.  "Must we?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench.

      "Surely you didn't think we were going to whisk you away without letting your adoptive parents, who no doubt already miss you, know where you were going."

      "I don't want to go back," Aidan said in a small voice, looking away.

      McGonagall frowned.  "Why not?"

      Aidan opened his mouth to reply, but the same lump that had prevented him from admitting his shame to Elisa choked his voice now.  _Because I don't want to be anywhere near Morgan,_ he wanted to say, _because he's a sick, perverted bastard who preys on his own adopted son.  Say it!_ he urged himself, but the words would not come.

      "Whatever difficulties you and your adoptive father may have," McGonagall said, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow, "I expect you will afford him at least a minimum of courtesy, which includes telling him where you plan to spend the next year of your life."

      Aidan nodded reluctantly, anger and frustration seething inside of him.  His magical side--he still had a hard time believing it--was a whole new aspect of himself, one which Morgan did not know about and consequently could not defile, as he had done to every other part of Aidan's life.  He did not want Morgan to be a part of it, but the problem lay in expressing this; he could not bring himself to admit it underneath the Headmistress's iron stare.  "Can we at least not bring magic into it?" he asked, almost begged, the Headmistress.  "I don't think they could handle it."

      "Very well," she replied.  "Not everyone's parents can.  We will simply inform them that you've been accepted at an elite boarding school; that is close enough to the truth without being overly specific."

      Aidan relaxed a little.  He was not looking forward to seeing Morgan again, but at least the man would not now be able to touch him or that one part of himself that was still whole.

      McGonagall downed the last of her coffee and stood, placing a few odd-looking coins on her plate.  "Finished," she announced, and their dishes vanished from the table.  "Let's gather your things," she said briskly.  "We still have a lot to do today."

      It was with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Aidan returned to number five, Arshield Close.  The Minister had loaned them the same car and driver that had brought Aidan to the Ministry, and as they coasted to a silent stop outside the Sears house, Aidan felt a surge of panic.  He would have stayed in the car had he been able, but McGonagall, who had, with a wave of her wand, changed her long robes into a black suit and skirt, gestured at him impatiently to get out, and he did so with a growing feeling of dread.

      "It will be over with soon enough," she told him, smoothing her perfectly-pressed suit.  "I'll do most of the talking while you pack."  Together, they strode up the walk, McGonagall's heels clicking briskly against the pavement.  Before she could ring the bell, the door swung open and Aidan found himself being crushed in Elisa's fierce embrace.

      "There you are!" she cried, cutting off Aidan's oxygen supply.  "Where have you been?"

      "He has been meeting with me," McGonagall replied as Morgan appeared in the open doorway.

      "Yeah," Aidan wheezed as Elisa stepped away from him.  "I told you about it this morning.  Don't you remember?"

      "No," Elisa said slowly, frowning.  "But my memory's been a little funny lately," she added, trailing off, her eyes sliding slightly out of focus.  Aidan wondered about the side effects of memory modification and he made a mental note to ask McGonagall later.

      "If we might come in?" McGonagall prompted.

      "Oh," Elisa replied, her eyes snapping back into focus.  "Forgive me.  I'm Elisa Sears," she said, holding out one hand.

      "Minerva McGonagall," said the Headmistress, taking her hand.  "And you must be the boy's father."

      Morgan nodded.  "Morgan Sears," he said.  "And yes, won't you come in?"  He stepped aside, allowing the two of them to pass through the doorway.  Aidan suppressed a shudder as he came within inches of the man.  "What's this all about?" Morgan asked, closing the door behind them.

      "My acceptance at a private school," Aidan said, adding, as he saw Morgan frown, "far away."

      "I don't remember that," his adoptive father said.  "Please sit down," he added to McGonagall, indicating the leather couch in the living room with one outstretched hand.

      "Thank you.  We sent a letter in early January," McGonagall said as she perched herself on the edge of the couch.  "I have a copy here, if you'd like to see it."  She withdrew a piece of paper from a portfolio that Aidan was certain she had not had when they came in, handing it to Elisa.

      "'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sears,'" Elisa read, "'we are pleased to inform you that your son, Aidan, has been accepted at the Athenian Institute for Advanced Learning, due to his outstanding academic showing in the preceding term.'"  She glanced at McGonagall, startled.  "Athenian?  As in Greece?"

      McGonagall nodded.

      "Let me see that," Morgan said, taking the letter from his wife's hands.  "'The Athenian Institute is a private school dedicated to the pursuit of advanced subjects in math and science.  Only two percent of all applicants are actually accepted.'"  He frowned at McGonagall.  "I don't remember applying."

      Aidan could have sworn she smiled slightly.  "I have a copy of the application as well," she said, withdrawing another sheet of paper from the portfolio.  "I believe that is your signature at the bottom, Mr. Sears."

      "When did you do this?" Elisa murmured, looking over her husband's arm as he took the second sheet from McGonagall.

      "I don't remember," Morgan replied softly, brow furrowed in consternation.  Aidan was more than happy to contribute to the man's confusion.

      "It was right after you told me I should broaden my horizons," he told Morgan.  "Don't you remember saying that?"

      Morgan nodded absently, his eyes traveling over the "letter" once more.  "'Activities include travel to various historical sights in and around Athens, a weeklong stay in Rome for comparative cultural studies, and an end-of-term excursion to Alexandria, Egypt, site of the famed Library of Alexandria.'  How much does this _cost_?"

      "Most of the funds come from private donors," McGonagall replied smoothly.  "Aidan will, however, need spending money."

      "Will you excuse us for a moment?" Morgan asked. 

      McGonagall nodded.  "Pack your things," she said quietly to Aidan as Mr. and Mrs. Sears retired down the hall, talking in low, urgent voices.  "It will help to persuade them."

      "Athens?" Aidan whispered, grinning.

      "You said 'far away', did you not?"  She sat as rigidly as ever, but Aidan saw the corners of her mouth twitch.  The Minister was right, he thought happily, heading up to his bedroom, McGonagall was not as bad as she seemed.

      When he came back downstairs, one duffel bag slung over each arm, the entire matter seemed to be settled, although Morgan had a slightly glazed look in his eyes as he handed over a large sum of money to the Headmistress, which made Aidan suspicious.  McGonagall's wand was nowhere in sight, however.

      "This just feels so sudden," Elisa was saying.  "I know we've been planning it for awhile, but it still feels strange."  She turned to face Aidan as he entered the living room, and the sorrowful expression on her face caused Aidan's insides to burn guiltily.  He would gladly have left if Morgan had been the only one involved, but Elisa actually cared about him, and he suddenly found himself having second thoughts.

      "Not to worry," McGonagall said soothingly, pocketing the money Morgan had given to her.  "Aidan will be in the best of hands.  And he will be allowed to return for the holidays."

      "Must he leave now?" Elisa inquired earnestly.  "I thought term was nearly over."

      "He needs time to become accustomed to his host family," McGonagall said.  "Not to mention the enormous amount of homework he will be expected to complete before the fall term even begins."  Aidan's stomach lurched at the way McGonagall emphasized "enormous"; he felt certain she was referring to the amount of work he would have to do between now and September if he was to catch up with his fellow classmates.

      "Oh," Elisa said.  She suddenly walked over and hugged Aidan even more fiercely than she had when he arrived.  "You're growing up so fast," she said tearfully.  "I know you didn't like that picture on your birthday cake, but--"

      "It's okay," Aidan interrupted, feeling very uncomfortable.

      Elisa grasped his arms firmly, stepping back and surveying him carefully, as if memorizing his every detail.  "Now I expect you to write often," she said, trying to sound stern and failing.  "And mind you get good marks," she added with a sniffle.  She shook her head.  "I don't know why I'm getting all soggy on you," she said apologetically.  "I mean, we've known about this for _ages._"

      Aidan cast a reproachful look at McGonagall, convinced she had modified their memories once again while he had been packing.  She returned his gaze coolly, as if daring him to try and prove it.

      He turned his attention back to Elisa.  "I'll write," he promised, wondering how on earth he was going to get letters to her from wherever the school was located.  He had a feeling owls weren't going to be the answer.

      "Best get a move on," McGonagall said shortly, checking her wristwatch.  "Our flight leaves in an hour." 

      Elisa and Morgan escorted them outside, where Aidan saw the car had exchanged its violent magenta coloring for a rich, navy blue, with the Athenian Institute for Advanced Learning insignia now emblazoned on the doors.  The driver helped Aidan load his bags into the trunk before opening the passenger door so he could climb inside the car. 

      As Aidan settled into the back seat, he saw Elisa give a sad little half-wave and waved back, feeling completely wretched.  He had never before realized how much he had become attached to Elisa; always, his overriding feelings of hatred for Morgan had been directed at her, too, and he felt sorry now, wishing he had been kinder to her.  True, he hadn't been horrible to her, but still his conscience tormented him for the fiction he and McGonagall had invented on the spot and the unfair modification of their memories--of her memory when she had failed to readily embrace it, out of concern for his well-being.

      "Was that as bad as you expected?" McGonagall asked, seating herself next to him.

      "No," Aidan replied miserably.  "It was worse."

      The car pulled away from the curb and Aidan glanced backward, watching as the only home he had ever known--and perhaps the closest thing he had ever had to a mother--retreated into the distance.


	4. Beginnings

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

FOUR

      They were let off on Charing Cross Road, a bustling city street in downtown London; the silent driver helping Aidan to unload his bags from the trunk before driving away.  Shops of every kind stretched down both sides of the street, and people of all shapes and sizes ambled past them, occasionally stopping to glance in a window, or else hurrying by, chattering briskly on cellular phones.  Overhead, dark clouds were building, blotting out the sun and casting a pall over the city.  The occasional low rumble of thunder reached Aidan's ears, blown in on sudden gusts of warm wind; a storm was brewing, and there would be rain before evening.

      Aidan hitched his bags up over his shoulders and turned quizzically to the Headmistress, who was still dressed in her business attire.  When she had told him they were going to pick up supplies for his summer schooling, he imagined pens, paper, notebooks--things of that nature.  None of the businesses on the thoroughfare seemed to sell these items, however.

      "We've arrived," McGonagall said, turning and gesturing toward the shops in front of them.  "Tell me what you see."

      Aidan followed the direction of her hand, puzzled.  Before them were two small stores; on the left was a shop specializing in rare and out-of-print books.  A tattered, hand-printed sign in the small display window read: "We Buy Used Books."  The small entrance door had been propped open with a large and heavy volume, and the musty smell of old paper wafted from inside the shop. 

      "Er, I see a bookstore," Aidan answered slowly, confused.  "Is that where we're going?"

      "No," McGonagall replied in patient tones, as if she was trying to help a student in one of her classes come to the correct conclusion.  "We want the place next to it."

      "The record store?" Aidan asked, now thoroughly confused.  Another small shop that had once apparently specialized in old LP's and eight-tracks was situated to the right of the book shop.  It looked as though it was now out of business: one window had been boarded up, and a faded sign reading "Closed" was hanging, lopsided, from inside the door.

      McGonagall shook her head.  "Look again."

      Frowning, Aidan did as he was told, staring hard at the two shops, with their cracked and peeling paint, but no revelations were forthcoming, save for the one that the building was in bad repair.  "I don't see anything else," he said after a few moments, shaking his head.

      "You're quite certain?" the Headmistress asked.

      "There's nothing there," Aidan said nervously; McGonagall clearly expected him to be able to see something else.  "Can _you_ see it?"

      She nodded.  "There's a door there, which belongs to a pub called the Leaky Cauldron.  The door has been bewitched so that Muggles cannot see it; or rather, so that they choose not to see it."

      Aidan turned back to the shops and paused as something caught his attention.  For the briefest second, he thought had seen something in his peripheral vision.  But when he stared directly at the building, it was not there.  Curious, he turned his face slowly away from the shops, trying to catch whatever it was out of the corner of his eye.

      "Do you see it?" inquired McGonagall.    

      "I saw _something_," Aidan told her, furrowing his brow in frustration.  "But only for a second."  He stared furiously at the reticent wall between the two shops, willing a door to appear, but the wall scorned his efforts and remained a wall, ugly and dirty.  _She said I'm not a wizard,_ Aidan thought, beginning to worry.  _Maybe I can't see it, either.  What if I can't see the door?  Would that mean I can't be taught after all, if I can't even do something as simple as see a magical door?  What if they decide to send me home?_

      "Relax," the Headmistress instructed.  "Consider this your first lesson: magic is not always about projecting your will onto your surroundings.  Often, it consists of choosing to perceive those surroundings in a particular fashion.  Focus on what the door should look like.  You don't need to know what it actually looks like to imagine it," she added, anticipating his objection.

      Aidan took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  It was difficult to imagine the door: visions of doors of all types appeared in Aidan's mind, and he was forced to reject them one by one.  The kind of door that would fit in this neighborhood would not have a gold knocker, for instance.  It would probably be just as scuffed and dirty as the two shops surrounding it, and it would probably be solid wood, rather than metal and glass, to conceal any wizardly activities that might going on inside.  He saw a rickety, scratched wooden door in his mind's eye, its dark paint peeling at the edges.  Above it hung an old, rusty sign that creaked slightly in the breeze, on which the faded picture of a cauldron was visible, its contents spilling from a hole in the underside.

      "I think that should do it," said McGonagall softly, a note of satisfaction in her voice.

      Aidan opened his eyes and laughed, relieved.  There before them, where previously there had been nothing but a blank wall, was the door he had seen in his head.  He had passed the test.  Tenatively, he walked over to the door and tried the rusty handle.  The door swung inward on creaking hinges, exposing the dark interior of the pub.

      "Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron," said the Headmistress, a small smile on her face.   "It may require some effort on your part to do some of the things that normal wizards take for granted," McGonagall told him, adding, "Thank you," as Aidan held the door for her, "but as long as you apply yourself, you shouldn't have too many difficulties."

      Aidan closed the door behind her and looked around the small room into which they had entered.  It was dark and smoky, both from the fire crackling in the large fireplace on one wall and the various patrons sitting at the small wooden tables, smoking pipes.  In one corner, a group of wizened old men with beards sat, conversing in hushed voices.  One of them nodded and raised his glass to McGonagall as she passed them.  She returned his greeting with a curt nod of her own.

      Aidan followed McGonagall, puzzled.  "Are we in the right place?" he whispered to the Headmistress as they headed toward the back of the room.

      She nodded.  "The Leaky Cauldron is the entrance to Diagon Alley," she replied.

      "Diagon Alley?"

      "Think of it as wizard Main Street.  We'll be able to buy your supplies from the shops there."

      They passed through a small, green wooden door that led to a small, enclosed courtyard whose only occupant was a dented, rusty trash can that stood against a brick wall.

      "First, some decent clothes," McGonagall muttered, withdrawing her wand from inside her suit and swirling it at herself.  Her clothes billowed for a moment as if a stiff breeze was blowing over them and transformed back into the dark robes in which she had earlier been attired. 

      "Much better," she said approvingly.  "Now, which one was it?  I haven't used the London entrance to Diagon Alley in ages," she explained, approaching the brick wall in front of them.  "I believe it's this one," she said, tapping one of the bricks three times with her wand.  "Stand back."

      Aidan looked on expectantly, but nothing happened.

      McGonagall frowned.  "I'm almost certain that's the correct brick," she said, tapping it again, more insistently.  "Ah, that's done it."

      There was a grating, scraping sound as the bricks begin to shudder and move, flowing and folding in on themselves to create an opening in much the same fashion as the entrance to the Ministry parking structure.  The sound of many voices filtered through the opening, and Aidan followed McGonagall through it, gazing in wonder at his first real glimpse of the wizarding world.

      His first impression was that witches and wizards deplored straight lines.  The crooked, winding street was full of buildings that would have given a non-magical architect nightmares, with many oblique angles and precarious overhangs that were disconcerting to someone used to squared-off edges and uniform shapes.  Some of the structures looked top-heavy, expanding outward as they rose upward, and Aidan was certain that they were somehow magically reinforced, or else they would have toppled to the ground. 

      Then, too, were the colors: Aidan had never seen so many different colors all in one place; from the paint on the surrounding buildings to the clothing worn by the many witches and wizards browsing through the items for sale.  Purple seemed to be a major theme, as did green, but other colors made appearances; here and there was a flash of navy blue or gold, even orange and white.  One witch even walked by in robes that shifted from a deep crimson to a dazzling neon pink and back again.

      "Some of us have a great deal of money to waste," McGonagall noted disapprovingly after the witch had passed.  "Honestly, whatever happened to simple robes?"

      Aidan shook his head, too overwhelmed to say anything.  In all his years of living in London, he had never known--never even imagined--a place like this could exist.  He followed the Headmistress down the street, gaping like a tourist at the shops: Moirae's Crystals, Eeyops Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies, an ice cream parlor...

      "What's a Sickle?" Aidan asked, pointing to the sign outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, which flashed, "H O T?  T H I R S T Y?  Try a BUTTERBEER FLOAT, delicious and refreshing!  Only 7 Sickles."

      "Sickles, Knuts, and Galleons are all wizard coins," the Headmistress replied.  "When we get to Gringotts, we'll exchange the money your father gave to me for them, so that we can purchase your supplies.  Gringotts is the wizard bank," she added before he could ask, pointing to a brilliant white building rising above the other shops. "Over there." 

      The tall stone building certainly had the air of a bank, enormous and impressive, with expensive-looking burnished bronze doors at its entrance.  A small, dark-skinned little man with shrewd, calculating eyes, a pointed nose and beard, and long fingers bowed low and held the door for McGonagall and Aidan as they climbed up the stairs before the entrance.

      "That's a goblin," the Headmistress whispered to him as they passed over the threshold into the entryway.  "Don't stare."

      "I thought they were mythical," Aidan murmured, tearing his eyes away from the goblin doorman, who grinned toothily and gave him a sly wink before resuming his post.

      "All myths have a basis in fact," McGonagall replied, pushing open a second set of silver doors, on which a poem had been inscribed. 

      Aidan barely got a chance to look at it before the splendor of the large hall before them drew his attention.  Marble pillars supported a domed ceiling, from which hung several gold and silver chandeliers whose glimmering yellow light reflected from the marble floor.  A long counter, also of marble, ran down the length of the hall, and several goblin tellers, seated on stools, were busy behind it, counting out coins, scribbling on parchment with long, plumed quills, or conversing with diverse witches and wizards.  Behind the counter were several arched doorways, and more goblins were entering and exiting through these, occasionally accompanied by one or more people.  A short line had queued up down the middle of the hall, between two crimson velvet ropes, waiting for the next available goblin teller; McGonagall and Aidan joined the end.

      "Can they be trusted?" Aidan whispered, eyeing the crafty-looking goblin tellers with uncertainty.

      "More so than most humans," McGonagall murmured as the line moved forward.  "Goblins love money, and they guard it jealously, which is why Gringotts is perhaps the safest place in the world to keep it."

      "No one tries to rob them?"

      "No one who wishes to continue enjoying a healthy existence," the Headmistress replied.  They were soon at the head of the of the line, with a few people behind them.  "Goblins have magic of their own, and the number of curses protecting the vaults below would be a challenge for even the most powerful wizard to bypass."

      "Next!" a goblin halfway down the counter shouted. 

      McGonagall approached the counter, Aidan in tow.  "We would like to convert this Muggle money to Galleons," she said, withdrawing five hundred-pound notes from her robes.  Aidan goggled; where had Morgan come up with that kind of money?

      "Do you have an account here?" the goblin teller inquired, taking the notes in its exceedingly long fingers.

      "Hogwarts," the Headmistress replied, handing over a golden key. 

      The goblin examined it closely.  "Very well," he said, almost reluctantly, giving the key back to the Headmistress.  "Wait here."  He climbed down from his stool and disappeared through one of the arched doorways behind the counter, reappearing after a few moments with a small, jingling bag of coins.

      "One hundred Galleons," the goblin teller said, mounting his stool and handing the bag to McGonagall.  "Minus a ten-percent exchange fee leaves ninety," he added with a cunning smile, revealing pointed teeth.

      McGonagall hefted the small, black satin bag in her hands, staring at the goblin dubiously.

      "Standard fee," the goblin said defensively, his smile fading.

      "If you say so," the Headmistress replied slowly.

      "I do," the goblin said shortly.  "Next!"

      "Was he cheating us?" Aidan asked as they stepped back out into the afternoon sun.

      "I don't know," McGonagall said.  "But in my experience, it's always best to act as if they are.  Usually they'll admit to it, if you press them.  Here."  She placed the bag of coins in Aidan's hands.  "That should see you through the summer and most of your first year," she told him, descending the steps rapidly.  "We'll pick up your supplies and have a spot of lunch before heading to the school."

      With the Headmistress's help, Aidan selected and purchased a small metal cauldron, into which he dumped his subsequent purchases: quills and ink, spell books, potion ingredients...

      _This is all for real!_ he had to keep reminding himself.  The sheer enormity of it all, the realization that something he had once thought was only a fantasy was in fact a reality staggered him.

      "You'll want an animal at some point," the Headmistress said as they passed the Magical Menagerie, from which all sorts of screeching and mewling could be heard.    "I'd recommend a cat, although an owl or another type of bird is useful as a messenger." 

      "Uh-huh," Aidan puffed, not really listening, trying to keep up with her brisk pace.  His arms were starting to grow tired; he'd been lugging his cauldron and both duffel bags up and down the alley for the past hour.

      "Only one more stop," she said, looking back at him.  "You need a wand."

      Far from the black and white batons that Aidan traditionally envisioned when he heard the word "wand", Ollivander's had boxes and boxes of polished wooden wands, much like the one Angie had brandished at him.  Aidan gratefully set his load down as they entered the building, staring up at the piles of boxed wands that reached nearly to the ceiling.  _Are there _that _many witches and wizards in the world?_ he wondered.

      "Welcome," said a soft-spoken older man with large, misty eyes, materializing from behind the nearest stack of boxes.  "Ah, Minerva, it's been ages.  Let's see, you had a mahogany wand, did you not?  Nearly eleven inches?  You still have it, I hope?"

      The Headmistress nodded.  "The boy needs a wand," she said, indicating Aidan.

      "I see," said Mr. Ollivander, turning his large eyes on Aidan.  "First time?"  He frowned suddenly as he gazed at Aidan, as if seeing something other than just a thirteen-year old boy.  "Curious," he murmured.

      "What is it?" Aidan asked uneasily, unnerved by the man's unblinking stare.

      "Nothing," he said, waving a hand dismissively and turning back to McGonagall, "only, are you quite certain he will be able to _use_ a wand?"

      "No," said the Headmistress.  "Are you saying he won't?"

      "I'm saying it will be very difficult to find a wand that won't burn to ashes in the boy's hands," Mr. Ollivander said.  "A wooden wand won't do at all."

      Aidan started.  The strange man _knew_; he had seen, somehow.  _Does he know what I am?_

      "I knew he wasn't an ordinary wizard," McGonagall said.  "Is he something you've seen before, then?"

      Mr. Ollivander shook his head, and Aidan's heart sunk.  "No," he said, "I know only that the boy recently produced an Incendiary Enchantment without the aid of a wand.  The--afterimage, if you will--of the magic is still hanging about him.  I can see the fire in him."  He turned to regard Aidan again, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

      "Is there nothing you can do?" McGonagall asked.  "A wand would be most helpful to him in learning to focus his powers, whatever their source."  

      "Let me see," Ollivander murmured, still rubbing at his chin and staring, with his large shimmering eyes, at Aidan.  "I could attempt to create a custom wand.  There's no telling if it would take to you, but there's no harm in trying, is there?"  His mouth suddenly broke into a smile, his large eyes widening even more with excitement.  "I haven't had a challenge like this in quite some time," he said eagerly, rubbing his hands together.  "Let's just get your measurements down."  He snapped his fingers and a small measuring tape flew into his outstretched hand.  "You're right-handed, correct?  Hold out your arm."

      Aidan obeyed, and the man began bustling about him, noting everything, from the distance between his thumb and forefinger to the circumference of his head.  Finally, he seemed satisfied.  "I'll need a small deposit," Ollivander said, "but I can have it to you in a week."

      Aidan dug in the black satin bag for the money the man wanted.  Already he had accumulated several silver Sickles and bronze Knuts, while losing a fair amount of Galleons.  He wondered how long the rest of the money would last; what if he had to pay for food at the school?  He deposited three Galleons into Ollivander's outstretched hand, resolving not to spend any more unless it was absolutely necessary.

      "Good," the man said, wrapping his fingers around the money and turning to McGonagall, "very good.  Is there anything else I can do for you?  Wand polish?  A carrying case, perhaps?"

      "No, thank you," the Headmistress replied.  "We'd best be going.  We'll return in a week."

      Mr. Ollivander nodded.  "I shall see you then," he said, and vanished behind one of the stacks of wands.

      Aidan shook his head as he gathered up his things.  "Strange man," he remarked to the Headmistress as they left the shop.  It bothered him how easily the man had picked up the fact that he was not a normal wizard; if it was that obvious, how was he ever going to fit in?  What if other, darker things, things that he didn't want anyone to know, showed up just as easily to wizards?

      "A little," McGonagall agreed.  "But you won't find a better wand maker anywhere."

      They headed back to the Leaky Cauldron in silence.  Aidan was preoccupied with all the things that had happened thus far, the image of Mr. Ollivander saying, "I can see the fire in him," repeating over and over in his head.  He hardly noticed when they passed through the brick archway, through the green door, and into the darkness of the tavern.

      "Minerva!" someone called, and Aidan looked up to see a toothless old man bustle out from behind the bar and hurry over to the Headmistress, hands outstretched.  "How are you?" he asked, shaking her hand vigorously.  "It's been a long time."

      "I've been keeping busy," McGonagall said with a tolerant smile, nodding at Aidan.  "This is Aidan Hayes."

      "Hullo," Aidan said as the bartender abandoned his furious shaking of the Headmistress's hand to commence furiously shaking Aidan's.

      "Pleasure to meet you, my boy, pleasure," Tom said effusively.  "Can I get you anything?  Gillywater?  Soda?  Butterbeer?"

      "No," said McGonagall firmly.  "We really must be going, Tom; I was just wondering if we might borrow your fireplace?"

      "Of course!" Tom said, letting go of Aidan's hand and leading them over to the fireplace, in which a fire was still crackling.  "Anything for the Headmistress of Hogwarts."

      "Thank you," McGonagall said graciously.  She took a small metal urn down from the mantel and opened it.  Inside, Aidan saw a greenish, glittering, grainy substance.  "This is Floo powder," the Headmistress explained, showing him the contents of the urn.  "It is one of the means by which wizards travel from one place to another."

      "Never traveled by Floo powder before, eh, lad?" Tom asked, grinning.  "You're in for one wild ride!"

      "So long as you speak clearly and keep your extremities close, you will be fine," McGonagall said, glancing sternly at the bartender.  "Take some," she instructed.

      Aidan obediently dug his hands into the urn.  The Floo powder felt like sand between his fingers. 

      "Throw it into the fire," said McGonagall.

      Aidan did and immediately stepped backward in surprise as the small, crackling orange fire turned into a roaring, green inferno.

      "Take your things and step inside."

      Aidan glanced at her uncertainly.

      "Go on," she said.  "It's quite safe."

      "So long as you don't get stuck in the chimney," Tom added.  McGonagall glared at the bartender.

      Very nervous, Aidan clutched his cauldron and edged toward the fire.  Oddly, it didn't feel very warm, but rather like a summer breeze.  _There's nothing for it_, he decided and plunged into the flames.  It was one of the strangest experiences he had ever felt, standing in the middle of a fire that licked hungrily at his clothes but did not burn.  He turned around and saw McGonagall looking approvingly at him through the fire and smoke.

      "Now, repeat very carefully: Hogwarts School, Ravenclaw common room," she told him.

      "H-Hogwarts School, Ravenclaw common room," he repeated, trying to keep ash from entering his mouth.  Almost immediately, he felt the ground fall out from underneath him as the whole world started spinning with a roar of sound and color.  It was like an amusement park ride gone horribly wrong: fire and smoke whipped around him, he felt seasick as his eyes insisted he was spinning while his brain insisted he was not, his eyes stung with ash, he had to close them, and over it all was a continual thunderous roar like the sound of a jet engine running at full speed. 

      Abruptly, his feet found solid ground again, and Aidan tumbled forward, sending his cauldron and bags flying as he landed hard on a carpeted floor, coughing and covered with soot.  The room into which he had fallen was decorated in blue and bronze, with large couches and squashy armchairs arranged around two long, low wooden tables.  A boy with dark hair, who had been sitting with his legs propped up on one of the tables while paging idly through a book, looked up in surprise as Aidan pushed himself shakily to his feet.

      "Hullo," he said.  "All right?"

      "Y-yes," Aidan said hoarsely, coughing and trying to clear the ash from his lungs as the boy unwound his tall frame from the chair and stood up, stretching, before coming over to meet him.  He stood a few inches taller than Aidan and had long, thick black hair, a lock of which hung carelessly over one of his piercing blue eyes.  He was dressed in a black shirt and matching black jeans and had a silver earring in one ear.  "Ciarán Dwyer," he said, sticking his hand out.

      "Aidan Hayes," said Aidan, taking his hand.

      "Pleasure," Ciarán responded, shaking Aidan's hand with a light grip.  "I don't think I've seen you around Hogwarts before."

      "No," Aidan said, "it's my first time here."

      Ciarán looked at him with surprise.  "Really?  You look too old to be a first year student.  Are you transferring from another school?"

      "Kind of," Aidan replied.  More to distract the older boy from any further inquiry regarding his background than any real interest, he asked, "What are you reading?"  For some reason, he very much wanted to impress Ciarán, or at least feel like he was on equal footing with him.  He didn't want the other boy to know that no one seemed to think he quite belonged in the wizarding world.

      "This?" Ciarán asked, hefting the large volume which bore the title, _An Exhaustive History of Magical Theory, Volume XII_, on its dark leather cover.  "I wasn't reading it, really, just looking at the pictures," he admitted, grinning sheepishly and brushing the stray lock of hair out of his eyes.

      "Right," Aidan responded uncertainly.  Just then, the Headmistress appeared in the large fireplace with a rush of emerald flame and a puff of green smoke, thus sparing him from having to come up with something more clever to say.

      "Ah, I see you've met Mr. Hayes," McGonagall said, stepping out the fire, which settled back into a low, crackling flame as she did so.  "He will also be with us for the summer."  She turned to Aidan.  "You will be rooming with Mr. Dwyer here in Ravenclaw tower," she informed him.  "Mr. Dwyer, if you won't mind giving Mr. Hayes the grand tour, I need to make arrangements for his education."

      Ciarán nodded.  "Yes, ma'am."

      "Good," said McGonagall approvingly.  "I'll leave you to get settled in," she said.  "Dinner will be at six o'clock in the Great Hall."  She strode briskly toward the far wall, disappearing through a hole in the floor that appeared at her approach and vanished behind her.

      "Well," said Ciarán quietly, sounding as uncertain as Aidan felt.  "Shall we get you settled, then?"

      Aidan spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the school with Aidan as his guide.  He was stunned by the size of the place, until Ciarán explained that it was a castle and showed it to him by taking him to the far edges of the grounds, on the fringes of the surrounding forest.

      "We don't go in there," Ciarán said, indicating the thick trees with a nod of his head.

      "Why not?" Aidan asked, peering curiously into the dark woods.  The fading sunlight did not penetrate very far into the forest, almost as if it, too, had reasons for staying away from the woods.

      "Mostly because the centaurs don't like it when people trespass on their land," Ciarán said.  "There're other things in there, werewolves and such, that are just as territorial."

      "Werewolves?" Aidan asked, looking doubtfully at his companion.  "There're _werewolves_ in there?"

      Ciarán nodded seriously.  "At night, on a full moon, you can hear 'em howling at each other."

      Aidan shook his head, adding werewolves to the rapidly-growing list of things he didn't know about the wizarding world.  He was beginning to worry that even a lifetime would not be enough to learn it all, let alone a single summer.  _How much of this stuff do real wizards take for granted?_ he wondered, the frustrating sense of being the cusp of something wonderful, but being unable to cross over into it, or to even understand it, burning within him.

      "Well, that's it," Ciarán concluded after a moment.  "You've seen the most important things: the Common Room, the Great Hall, the kitchens, and the Forbidden Forest; the rest'll come with your lessons."  He looked at Aidan curiously.  "What's McGonagall going to be teaching you, anyway?"

      Aidan shifted uncomfortably, looking away from the older boy toward the castle, where the uppermost ramparts had turned yellow-orange in the light of the evening sun.  "Oh, you know," he said evasively.  "The usual."  _Everything._  He wondered if the other boy could tell, as McGonagall and Ollivander had, that he did not fit in, and fervently hoped that he couldn't.

      Aidan finally forced himself to look at Ciarán, who was frowning, puzzled.  "Transfiguration?" the other boy asked.

      "Er, yeah," Aidan agreed readily.

      "Oh.  I didn't know she was still teaching that.  You're the first student that McGonagall has ever had for the summer."

      "Wait, what about you?" asked Aidan, glancing quizzically at the other boy.  "Aren't you taking summer lessons as well?"

      It was Ciarán's turn to look uncomfortable.  "No.  I'm just here," he said with a wan smile.  "I don't have anywhere else to go."

      "Oh," said Aidan sympathetically.  "Neither do I.  Not really."  He felt a pang as he said this, remembering Elisa's tearful good-bye; his conscience told him he was betraying her somehow, by making such an admission.  But he couldn't really go back, he reminded himself, not while Morgan was there.  Had Ciarán made a similar choice, or did simply have nowhere else to go, no family to take him in during the summer holiday?

      _I can't exactly _ask _him,_ he thought, looking at the dark-haired boy across from him.  _But it _is _strange that just when you think you're completely alone, someone else comes along to remind you that you're not._  He hoped he and Ciarán could be friends, but he also felt nervous about that possibility, and that confused him.

      The two stood silently, each lost in their own thoughts, until the sound of a chiming bell echoed across the grounds.

      "It's six o'clock," Ciarán noted, clearing his throat.  "We're going to be late for dinner."

      "Right."  Together the two boys trudged wordlessly back across the grass toward the castle, the fiery orange sun at their backs casting their long, dark shadows before them.


	5. Shadows

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

FIVE

Over the course of the next few days, Aidan's education began to develop a rhythm. He would rise early, tiptoeing around the dormitory so as to avoid waking Ciarán and the other boys, get dressed quietly, and head down to the Great Hall for breakfast. A few other students, who were early risers like himself, were normally already there, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some would pause to nod or greet him cheerfully, but a great deal more stared quizzically at the new student who had inexplicably appeared in their midst near the end of term. The Slytherin table in particular seemed to take his presence as a personal insult and went out of their way to glare at him threateningly or giggle loudly and whisper names at him behind his back in efforts to make him feel uncomfortable.

For his part, Aidan already felt uncomfortable without the Slytherins' help; he felt as if he was drowning in a sea of homework as a whole other world opened up to him. McGonagall had been true to her charge, setting him lessons in subjects that did not require the use of a wand. "Magic is not all spells and incantations, after all," she told him.

So Aidan learned, or tried to, at the hands of the finest instructors Hogwarts had to offer: Professor Aethera for Potions, Professor Hagrid for Care of Magical Creatures, and ghostly Professor Binns for the History of Magic. Morning after morning he would sit alone in the Ravenclaw common room after breakfast, scribbling furiously and drinking enough coffee to fill a small tanker. Ciarán looked on sympathetically, but as a Fifth Year, he had his own problems: a set of standardized exams known as O.W.L.s, or Ordinary Wizarding Levels, which were fast approaching. At night, he and Aidan were often among the last remaining students in the Ravenclaw common room when midnight arrived, and by the end of his first week at Hogwarts, Aidan was beginning to doubt whether or not he had made the right decision in coming to Hogwarts.

When Aidan had first thought of studying at a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had been thrilled at the prospect of a summer spent casting spells, learning to master the elements, and summoning creatures to do his bidding. The reality of magic was more than a little disappointing when held up to this standard, and it was with a sense of disillusionment that Aidan trudged to his fourth History of Magic lesson on the first Thursday after his arrival at Hogwarts. Every muscle in his body ached with exhaustion; he longed for nothing more than a solid eight hours of sleep. How could he possibly continue at this frenetic pace? Yet he would have to, in order to learn everything he needed to know in order to fit in with the rest of the Third Years when term resumed in the fall. He desperately wanted to fit in; he had horrible visions of the other students jeering when he tried and failed to perform some small, simple charm that even a first year student—that even a wizard _baby_—could do.

Of course, the Ravenclaws he had met thus far had done nothing of the sort; either they were polite and friendly to him or they ignored him altogether, but they never made fun of him. Still, who knew in which house he would end up when the fall came? McGonagall had informed him that he would be Sorted with the first year students, and for all he knew he could wind up in Slytherin. Aidan doubted very much whether the Slytherin students would be sympathetic toward his inexperience. They would probably use it against him. And he would be stuck there, with no way out; he could not just pack his bags and return to the house on Arshield Close.

With a sigh, Aidan approached the classroom in which Professor Binns taught; his bag, which had grown heavier and heavier over the course of the week, slung over one shoulder. Three Slytherin Sixth Years were waiting outside the door; Aidan vaguely remembered their names were Tiernan, Nock, and Nash. When they saw Aidan, they smirked and began to swagger belligerently in his direction. Aidan instinctively tensed and slowed as the Slytherin boys approached him. The lead boy, Tiernan, stood a head taller than Aidan and had a shock of unruly hair as red as Aidan's own, with a broad frame like Morgan's, but none of the paunch. Indeed, it looked as though he worked out regularly; his muscles were clearly visible, even underneath his green robes. His dark eyes glinted maliciously as he paused in front of Aidan while his two associates took up positions behind Aidan. He was completely surrounded, cut off from any chance of escape.

Already knowing how the conflict would end, Aidan nonetheless summoned his courage and faced Tiernan down defiantly. "What do you want?" he asked the older red-haired boy coldly.

"Mind your manners, Hayes," Tiernan drawled languidly. "We're only here to discuss your schooling."

"What of it?" Aidan snapped.

"Rumor has it that you're not a real wizard," the older boy replied lazily, "and as only real wizards are allowed to attend Hogwarts, we want to know what you're doing here."

"If only real wizards are allowed, how'd you manage to get in?" Aidan retorted without thinking.

"We _are_ real wizards, Hayes." Tiernan nodded at his two companions. "Our families have produced nothing but pureblooded wizards for centuries."

"Shame they didn't produce intelligent ones instead," Aidan said, ignoring the stabbing pains in his shoulder as Nock's vice-like grip inexorably tightened. He was incredibly angry for some reason and he was more than willing to vent that anger on the three Slytherins before him, despite their size and the certain folly of entering into a confrontation with them.

The smirk on Tiernan's face faded. "_Manners_, Hayes," he said in a soft, dangerous tone of voice. "You need to learn your place."

Aidan's heart leapt into his throat as the older boy advanced on him, but he fought down the urge to panic and braced himself for the worst. Nash giggled malevolently behind him as Nock's grip became unbearable.

"_This,_" hissed Tiernan, driving one fist into Aidan's solar plexus, "is your first lesson."

Nock released his grip and Aidan fell to the floor, clutching his stomach, unable to breathe, a sharp pain radiating outward to his extremities, causing stars to explode in his vision. Nash's shrill, nervous laughter was ringing in his ears; Nock was grunting appreciatively, and Tiernan's smug face swam into view as Aidan finally, finally was able to draw in a shuddering breath.

"That's where you belong, Hayes," he sneered. "On the ground. In the dirt."

Suddenly, a jet of blue-white light flashed by Tiernan's startled face, missing it by mere inches, sizzling as it hit the stone wall of the corridor beside him.

"Oops," said a familiar voice.

Tiernan glanced over his shoulder and Aidan saw his lip curl. "Look, boys, another piece of wizard trash. Come to rescue your boyfriend, Dwyer?"

"No," Ciarán replied lightly. "Just practicing my Confundus Charm, Blair. You remember that, don't you?"

Blair Tiernan clenched his fists and turned to face Ciarán. Gasping, Aidan sat up and turned to see Ciarán idly examining the length of his wand, which was pointed directly at the redheaded Slytherin.

"You'll pay for that," Tiernan growled.

"Not nearly as much as _Zonko's Zany 'Zine_ will pay for the pictures of you running around in nothing but a lace pillowcase. You could be their Buffoon of the Month."

Blair took a menacing step forward, but Ciarán shook his head and brandished his wand threateningly. "Not unless you want to repeat your performance," he warned.

"One day, Dwyer, you're not going to have your wand, and when that happens, you'd better watch yourself!" Tiernan turned furiously on his heel. "Come on!" he snapped at his cohorts as he stormed by. Ciarán watched the three of them disappear down the corridor before stepping over to Aidan and holding out a hand to help him up.

"Thanks," Aidan said shortly, wincing as he stood up with Ciarán's assistance. The pain in his stomach had subsided somewhat, but worse were the bitter feelings of disappointment of humiliation churning in his chest. Of all the places he had hoped to find acceptance, Hogwarts had been the most likely to actually provide it, or so he'd thought. He had believed that if he mastered the things a wizard was supposed to know, he would find a place for himself in the wizarding world, but now it looked as if the wizarding world didn't want him, either. And it had taken a _real_ wizard to save him from the emissaries of that aversion; he was not even able to defend himself.

"You all right?" the older boy inquired.

Aidan nodded, unwilling to look his rescuer in the face.

"I should have warned you about Slytherin," Ciarán said with a hint of scorn in his voice. "When I gave you the tour. Bunch of slimy gits, the whole lot. Tiernan's the worst; he's got this stupid idea that only pureblood wizards should be admitted to Hogwarts." Ciarán shook his head. "All of Slytherin do; it's their creed. They don't like anyone who's different from themselves."

"I didn't ask to be different!" Aidan shouted, venting his frustration on the only person available.

"Neither did I," Ciarán told him quietly. "I was born to Muggle parents, so I don't fit the qualification of a pureblooded wizard, either."

"I didn't see them picking on _you_," Aidan pointed out sharply, angry at the sympathetic tone in the other boy's voice and feeling guilty for taking out his anger on Ciarán.

"They used to. Until I bested Tiernan in Dueling Club with a well-placed Confundus Charm and he ended up thinking he was a house elf for an hour." Ciarán smiled with grim satisfaction. "I've got photographs if he ever decides to try anything, and he knows it."

"Yeah, well, hurrah for you," Aidan muttered, hating himself for being so horrible but plunging ahead anyway. He bent over painfully to retrieve his bag from the floor. "I don't have your extraordinary talent for blackmail."

"Hey," Ciarán said with a touch of annoyance, "I'm trying to help you."

"I know," Aidan snapped, "and I'm supposed to be grateful, right?" He stood up, bag clutched in one fist. "Well, I'm not! I don't want your help! I don't want your pity! I just want to be left alone!" He turned and strode away, fuming, leaving Ciarán standing alone in the empty corridor.

The rest of the day was completely miserable. He had to sit through Professor Binns' lecture on the ancient shamans who helped their clans survive the last ice age, a subject that might have been mildly interesting if the only ghost teacher on the Hogwarts staff wasn't such an incredible bore. The only high point of the evening was when Professor McGonagall found him sitting by himself at the Ravenclaw table and staring moodily at his plate.

"Your wand has arrived," she informed him. He followed her eagerly into the entrance hall, momentarily forgetting his woes. Mr. Ollivander, dressed in a rumpled velvet suit, was waiting expectantly.

"Good to see you again, Mr. Hayes," said the wandmaker warmly, extending one long, thin hand as Aidan reached the floor; the other held a black box with a silver cover. "How do you find your lessons?"

"They're okay," Aidan replied, shaking the man's bony hand. "I mean, they're interesting. For the most part." He eyed the box in Mr. Ollivander's other hand with interest.

Ollivander nodded slowly, following Aidan's gaze with his eyes. "I daresay I've outdone myself this time," he said, releasing Aidan's hand. "The only question is whether you and the wand will be compatible." He held out the box. "The wand chooses its owner, after all. Let's see what it makes of you."

Tentatively, Aidan took the box from the older man, feeling his earlier frustration bubbling up within him. He had not realized that the decision of whether or not he would even have a wand resided, not with him, but the wand itself. How many times would he have to prove himself in the wizarding world? Wasn't it enough that he was here, that he was willing to learn to use whatever power he had? He began to wonder if anyone, or any_thing_, for that matter, would ever accept him as he was. Certainly the Slytherins were only too ready to show their disdain for him, and despite what Ciarán said, that attitude had to come from somewhere. Was it possible that the majority of the wizarding world had an elitist mentality? Was that, perhaps, why they held themselves aloof from the rest of the planet, hiding behind a veil of secrecy and jealously hoarding their powers? Maybe that attitude pervaded even Hogwarts itself; could that be the real reason he was never accepted? McGonagall had not looked too pleased with her assignment.

"Open it," Mr. Ollivander prompted after a moment, interrupting Aidan's thoughts.

Carefully, Aidan removed the top from the box and peered inside. A slender, silver-white wand rested inside, slightly thicker at the base and tapering to a rounded point at the end. It glittered softly in the light of the hall, seeming alive and regarding Aidan with silent interest.

"Twelve inches, tungsten, with a diamond-filament core and a permanent Cooling Charm." Mr. Ollivander looked quite pleased. "I believe it would withstand the heat of the sun itself, if so required. Give it a wave," he instructed.

This was the moment of judgment, then. Aidan felt as if his entire fate hung on whether or not the innocent-looking piece of metal lying before him decided he was worthy of wielding it. With some trepidation, he picked the wand up in his right hand; the cool metal tingled as it brushed his skin, as if an electric current had passed between Aidan and the wand. Uncertainly, Aidan gave it a slight swish.

At first it seemed nothing had happened. Mr. Ollivander's smile faded, replaced by a look of mild disappointment. McGonagall, too, was regarding him with consternation. _I'm sorry!_ Aidan wanted to shout at her. _I'm sorry I'm not a real wizard, all right? I'll just pack my things and go, shall I?!_

Quite suddenly, a surge of warmth built in Aidan's chest, exploding into a fiery surge that shot down the length of his outstretched right arm and into the wand. The wand began to vibrate as the power rushed into it, glowing with a dazzling white light so bright it cast flickering shadows on the ceiling, and it began to grow hot. Abruptly, a stream of fire erupted from the tip, arcing over the entrance hall and becoming a bright curtain of dancing orange flames suspended in midair, from which sparks cascaded like raindrops, winking out of existence before they reached the floor.

Aidan held onto the wand for as long as he could, but finally the pain grew too intense to bear, not just from his burning hand but from the searing heat pouring through his arm from his chest, and he dropped it, shaking his hand wildly to cool it. The wand fell to the floor with a metallic clatter, its tip smoking slightly as its white-hot glow began to fade. At once, the fiery feeling in Aidan's arm and chest vanished, leaving him gasping and covered with sweat. The curtain of flame disappeared in a puff of smoke, like a candle that had been snuffed out.

Mr. Ollivander looked impressed; McGonagall looked astounded.

"Excellent!" the wandmaker cried triumphantly. "The wand withstood the temperature!"

"D-does that mean it chose me?" Aidan panted.

"It does indeed," said Mr. Ollivander, beaming.

"Even though I'm not a wizard," Aidan murmured uncomfortably, glancing at his right hand, which bore no injury, despite having been burned.

"No, indeed," Mr. Ollivander agreed. "You're something more, I should think. That is no ordinary wand, Mr. Hayes."

Aidan turned back to the older man, who was staring at him with a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. "What do you mean?"

"Every wand has at its heart a magical conductor, if you will. I've used hairs from the tails of unicorns, phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, and the like. But your wand has what I would consider a very ordinary core, or perhaps I should say a very non-magical core. In the hands of an ordinary wizard, it will not function; yet in your hands, it clearly does." Mr. Ollivander looked significantly at the still-glowing metal wand lying on the marble floor. "That should not be possible. I am almost tempted to say that your powers are not magical at all; at the very least, they defy magic as we have come to know it and recognize it."

"What does that mean?" asked McGonagall, having regained a measure of her composure. "Will his wand function like a normal wand?"

"I cannot say," the wandmaker replied. "I have never made another like it."

"But then how did you know he would be able to use it at all?" McGonagall inquired.

"I didn't," Ollivander admitted. "I was only trying to use materials with a very high melting point. I came here expecting it to fail, in which case I would not have known how to proceed. None of the magical materials at my disposal will withstand the heat the boy's power generates."

Self-conscious under the weight of their collective stares, Aidan could only stare helplessly back. _I don't have answers for you! I don't know what I am! I didn't want to be different! I didn't want _any _of it!_ These thoughts kept chasing themselves through his head as McGonagall regarded him uncertainly for a moment, as if unsure of what to do with him. Ollivander was looking at him thoughtfully, with interest rather than fear, and it was he who finally broke the silence that had descended upon the entrance hall.

"I will be very interested to hear how the wand performs," he said. "You will notify me, of course?"

Aidan nodded dumbly.

"Good. Then there's only the matter of the final payment."

"Oh," said Aidan, blinking. Mr. Ollivander was acting as if he saw strange things all the time. "How much do I owe you?"

"Thirteen Galleons," replied the older man. "Less the three you deposited leaves ten."

Wordlessly, Aidan fished the pouch of coins from his pocket and handed Mr. Ollivander the money.

"Very good." The wand maker pocketed the change and turned expectantly to the Headmistress. "If I might impose upon you for the use of a fireplace, Minerva? I really must be getting back."

"Of course," McGonagall said, seeming to come out of a trance. "This way." She led the older man through the doors of the Great Hall, leaving Aidan alone.

Or so he thought.

"Wow," Ciarán began slowly. Aidan turned and saw the dark-haired boy standing on the marble staircase, gazing at him with awe.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"I've never seen anything like that," Ciarán said, descending the stairs slowly.

"Join the club," said Aidan shortly, bending down to scoop his wand into the box, careful to touch it only briefly, lest it ignite again.

McGonagall reentered the hall after a few moments, sparing the two boys from having to make any further conversation. "Under the circumstances, Mr. Hayes, I think it's best if you don't use that until you've learned how to use it," the Headmistress said, nodding at the wand box as she came up to him.

It was easy for Aidan to agree to this, as he never wanted to use the wand again, but rather to hurl it into the lake from the tallest tower of the school. "Yes, ma'am."

"We will begin your spelling lessons tomorrow, then," she continued. "In the meantime, I believe your dinner is waiting."

Aidan was relieved when dinner was over and he was finally able to return to the Ravenclaw common room. Even though he had a mountain of homework to do, he did not want to be left alone with Ciarán, so he headed up to the dormitory instead, changing quickly and climbing into the four-poster bed. The moonlight shone through the tower window, its silver white color reminding him of the wand when it was cool. He pulled the hangings shut so he would not have to look at it, turning over on one side and replaying the events of the day in his mind. He wished he had not been so mean to Ciarán, the only person who had even been remotely understanding, but it was too late now. He'd probably driven the boy away for good, and now he would be alone for the entire summer, as Ciarán was sure to avoid him.

_Good,_ he thought. But he felt a twinge of regret nonetheless. _Why? Why do I care anyway? I've only known him for a week._

_You know why_.

Aidan shook his head, unwilling to purse that line of thought, focusing instead on the image of Blair Tiernan as it was fixed in his head: a sneer curling the other boy's lip as he looked down on him. He would have to watch out for the Slytherin boy and his companions, but only for another week or so, until term ended. _I guess that means taking the long way to History of Magic._ Not that he minded; he was never exactly anxious to arrive at the most boring subject known to humankind.

He felt his eyes grow heavy as the weariness of four days' worth of missed sleep caught up with him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he should fight it, should get up and do his homework, but he could not bring himself to leave the soft, warm bed. He was sinking into it, letting the softness and warmness wash over him, sinking…

And abruptly he was falling into an endless void, an utter darkness that stretched on forever. At first he was afraid, terrified he would come crashing down onto the unseen surface of this place, but when no such impact occurred and the seconds dragged onto an eternity, the fear dissipated, and there was only the sensation of free-flight. Time ceased to have meaning; he might have been falling forever or for a heartbeat. There was nothing but the darkness; there had never been anything else. He began to lose all sense of separation from the void, all feeling of being an entity apart of the darkness, but, abruptly, there was a light.

It was a small, flickering light. It seemed to emanating from Aidan himself. He looked down and saw a tiny pinprick of white fire blazing in his chest, a solitary star against the velvet backdrop of the night all around him, and he distinctly felt the night react, contracting around him. The void began to develop substance, he could feel it slithering past him, over his skin, coalescing from inky blackness into a shape; the shape of a man with blonde hair, who had once been tall and strong but now showed signs of neglect, particularly around his midsection. It was Morgan.

"Put it out," Morgan hissed, grasping Aidan's forearms and shaking him fiercely. But the voice was not Morgan's; it was a high, cold voice like the arctic wind, seeming to contain the howl of thousands of souls, stealing away all warmth from the surroundings.

"I can't," Aidan tried to explain. "I don't know how."

"Give it up to me," said the darkness through not-Morgan, pulling Aidan closer, until he could feel the man pressing up against him, breathing hard, running his hands, like ice, all over his body, underneath his shirt, moving ever lower. Aidan suddenly felt limp, as if his mind had fled, and the small point of light burning in his chest flickered and danced as if caught in a sudden breeze.

Aidan felt a sudden stab of fear. The fire was all he had, it was the last thing he possessed that the darkness, that Morgan could not touch—he had to protect it. He struggled against the overpowering grip on his arms, managing to get one arm free and shove the darkness back.

"No," he said fiercely, "you can't have it."

It shifted again, and suddenly Ciarán was standing before him. "Share it with me," he said, moving closer to Aidan and wrapping his arms around him in an embrace.

"No," Aidan said again, but with sorrow this time instead of anger. "I can't."

Ciarán backed away wordlessly and the darkness dissolved.

As if a curtain was rising, stars began to appear. Aidan felt warmth on the back of his neck and turned. The star before him was impossibly immense; it burned white-hot against the surrounding void, nearly blinding him. A fiery plume erupted from its surface, a billowing streamer of flame that slowly resolved itself into the shape of a bird soaring on outstretched wings, carried on the continuous blast of hot air vented from the stellar furnace. It streaked across the short distance separating Aidan from the star and halted only a short distance from his face, trailing orange-white fire behind it.

_Three Darknesses,_ it said in Aidan's mind. _One was, one is, and one is yet to come. You must share your fire with the Darkness to overcome it._

"How? Which? When?" Aidan asked, bewildered.

_You will decide how. You will decide which. You will decide when. But you must do so quickly; already the Third Darkness approaches._

"Where?" Aidan asked, turning around wildly, looking for the inky curtain that had confronted him earlier.

_There._

One by one, the stars that had so recently been uncovered were winking out. Aidan felt a cold certainty within him; the stars were not actually being shrouded this time, as they had been before, they were being snuffed out. And suddenly he realized, as the phenomenon drew closer, that the stars were not stars at all; they were _people_, thousands of human beings whose inner fires had suddenly, inexplicably, gone out.

_You must hurry,_ the voice urged him as the last of the stars went out, save Aidan's own. Aidan could only stare in frozen terror; he could not move, he could not breathe, he could not think as the darkness roared with savage triumph and engulfed him. The warmth on the back of his neck, the hot breeze blowing from the star, the firebird--all were suddenly no more. Aidan turned and saw the star below glowing like a spent coal, its fires quenched. The pinprick of light in his chest was also fading, leaving nothing but a gaping hole and a sense of profound sorrow where it had been.

_The Third Darkness is here…_

He awoke with a start and sat up, breathing heavily. The dream images were still with him, along with the sense of urgency. The room was dark, and for one wild moment Aidan feared the darkness from his nightmare had overtaken him here, in the waking world. Desperately, he flung back the hangings and the moon came into view, its soft light illuminating the dormitory. Aidan sighed with relief. It had only been a dream. He lay back on his pillow, staring up at the covering over the bed, trying to shake the feeling of foreboding that had gripped him. _It was only a dream_, he kept repeating. But it was a long time before he could get back to sleep.


	6. Fear

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

SIX

As with all dreams, the passage of time was enough to wash away the urgency of Aidan's nightmare as other, more tangible concerns took precedence. Aidan's lessons in spellwork were overseen by the Headmistress herself, and she was a strict instructor who allowed for no outside distractions; she demanded focus. Aidan was somewhat relieved to discover his first lesson consisted entirely of the theory and history of wands and wandmaking, rather than any practical application of wandwork; he was afraid to even look at his wand, keeping it covered for the entire lesson. He dreaded having to use it again, not just because of the physical pain involved but because he feared he would be unable to control the results. He had not intended to produce the curtain of flame; the wand had merely _done_ it, seemingly of its own accord, drawing on his power to feed the flames. He wondered if the wand was alive in some way; certainly anything seemed possible in the wizarding world. If it was, how would he be able to make it do what _he_ wanted? There had to be a way, since no one else seemed to have a problem getting their wands to work. But Ollivander did say that his wand was not ordinary…

"Are you paying attention, Mr. Hayes?" McGonagall inquired with one raised eyebrow, having failed to get a response from him after making the pewter goblet on her desk float over to his with a wave of her wand. "Or are Levitation charms so commonplace in your experience that we need to proceed at a faster pace?"

"Er, yeah, sorry," Aidan said, snapping out of his reverie. "I mean, no," he added hastily as the second half of the question registered.

McGonagall did not look convinced. "The Levitation charm may be simple," she informed him, nodding at the goblet in front of him, "but it will be the first item we cover in your next lesson. Unless you have something else to suggest?"

Aidan shook his head quickly. "No. I just—are wands—how do you control them?" he finished feebly.

"Control comes with practice," McGonagall replied simply.

"Mine took me by surprise last night," Aidan admitted. "I didn't mean for it to do what it did."

"It took us all by surprise," the Headmistress told him. "But, as you will discover, the wand is a natural focus for your power. As a result, your power becomes easy accessible, and the way that power manifests itself depends largely on your internal state of mind. Your display last night was likely representative of how you felt at that moment."

"I was angry," Aidan murmured.

McGonagall nodded. "A strong emotion will produce strong results. Why were you angry?"

"Oh, just frustrated, I guess," Aidan replied evasively. He was not about to tell her about his confrontation with Blair Tiernan and his thugs; the last thing he needed was for everything to think he had gone running to the Headmistress, that he was unable to handle it himself. Nor was he going to mention his overall sense of aggravation at his inability to fit into the wizard mold, for the same reason. McGonagall would think he was whining. "You know," he added with a shrug, "lots of homework, not enough time to do it all."

The Headmistress was looking at him suspiciously, but apparently decided not to pursue the issue. "You have a lot of ground to cover before the fall, Mr. Hayes, and that necessitates a great deal of homework." She then assigned him a two-foot essay on the evolution of the wand before dismissing him.

Aidan trudged through the crowded corridors, keeping an eye out for Blair and his companions. He doubted whether Tiernan would try anything with the halls full of students, but he felt he should be on his guard in any case. There was also the matter of Ciarán; Aidan hadn't seen the dark-haired older boy all day, though he didn't know whether this was because he was frantically studying for his O.W.L.s, which began in three days, or because he was avoiding him. His conscience reproached him again, as it had the previous night, but he ignored it, repressing the twinge of regret he felt. _There's nothing I can do about it now_, he told himself, but he knew that was not true; the obvious course of action was to apologize. Yet, as he climbed the stairs toward Ravenclaw tower, intending to stow his bag in the dormitory before heading down to dinner, he couldn't imagine himself actually apologizing to the older boy. It was not because he thought he was in the right—he knew he wasn't—rather, his mind shied away from the thought and he became hot and uncomfortable when he tried to force the subject. _What if I've messed up everything?_ he worried. _What if he doesn't want to forgive me?_

"You gonna stand there all day or you gonna give me the password?"

Aidan looked up, surprised. He had hardly been aware of reaching the top of the stairs, where the great stone gargoyle, carved in the shape of a fierce occamy, a kind of snake with plumed wings and two legs ending in sharp talons, guarded the entrance to Ravenclaw tower. "Er, 'Mons Mensa'," he said.

"I was beginning to think you were a mute," the gargoyle growled, its serpentine tail undulating as it slid aside with a grinding noise to reveal a hole in the wall behind it, through which a winding stone staircase was visible. Aidan took the steps two at a time and emerged in the Ravenclaw common room. A few other students were already there, mostly Fifth Years sitting in the armchairs and on the couches, hunched over their books with intense looks of concentration creasing their foreheads. The Grey Lady was deep in discussion with a small knot of students in one corner of the room, but Ciarán was nowhere in sight. Sighing with disappointment, he climbed up yet another set of stairs to the boys' dormitory, flinging his bag down at the foot of his bed. _Whether or not he wants to forgive me, I'm going to have to tell him I'm sorry. I hope he's not too upset with me, because…_

But that thought led to a confusing place.

Pushing it aside, Aidan steeled his resolve. He would find Ciarán, apologize, and hope for the best. He hurried back down into the common room and down the spiral staircase to the tower entrance, nearly running face first into the stone wall behind the gargoyle, which had not opened for him. Aidan frowned and pushed experimentally against the rough stones. The wall was supposed to slide open when a student was leaving the tower, yet it remained motionless. He strained against it, running his fingers over the stone, wondering if there was a catch or a mechanism that had failed to activate for some reason, but he found none. Puzzled, he returned to the common room.

"Has anyone else been able to get out?" he called. "The wall won't open for me."

The various Fifth Years looked quizzically at him, momentarily forgetting their books. "What do you mean?" the closest one, a tall, raven-haired girl by the name of Shauna Walsh, asked.

"The wall won't open," he repeated.

She frowned and bit her lower lip uncertainly. "It should. You were able to get in, right?"

Aidan nodded.

"Let me see," she decided, rising from her chair. Aidan led Shauna down the winding stairs to the wall, which remained recalcitrant, even when they both pushed against it. A few curious Ravenclaw students, accompanied by the Grey Lady, had clustered curiously on the stairs behind them.

"It won't budge." Shauna turned and looked anxiously at the Grey Lady. "Has this ever happened before?"

"No," the Lady replied, shaking her transparent head. "The enchantment was placed on the stone when the school was first built, and it is reinforced every year. It has never failed." She glided toward them and placed a pale hand on the wall. "How strange," she murmured, pressing hard against it.

It took Aidan a moment to realize what he was seeing. "You're not sliding through it!" he exclaimed. The other students shifted uneasily. What could prevent an immaterial ghost from passing through a material object?

"Indeed," the Lady agreed. "Powerful magic is at work here. However," she added as she began to sink through the floor, "it does not seem to have affected the other surfaces." She looked up at the worried Ravenclaws as she vanished through the stone. "I will inform the Headmistress and return," she said.

Two of the older boys stayed behind at the wall to see if they could force it open, but the majority of the students climbed back into the common room, whispering nervously amongst themselves. Aidan felt a sense of foreboding return to him as he sat apprehensively on the first step leading to the boy's dormitories. _This has something to do with me,_ he thought grimly. _I was the last one through the opening._ But how? And why now? Why not the first time he'd gone through? He could not come up with any answers.

Eventually, the two Ravenclaw boys who had remained at the wall returned, sweating, to collapse in the nearest free chairs.

"No luck?" Shauna asked, walking over to them.

They shook their heads.

"Maybe we could blast through!" one of them suggested.

"You can't," Shauna replied immediately, shaking her head. "It's protected against magical attack, to prevent someone from forcing their way into the tower."

"Besides, Ronan," said the other Ravenclaw boy, "d'you really want to be expelled for destroying school property?"

"No," the first boy replied, looking crestfallen. "I just don't like being cooped up in here."

"They'll find a way to get us out," Shauna said confidently.

"If we had Floo powder, we could get out," Ronan said sadly. "Too bad they don't let us have any."

"Don't want you sneaking off to Hogsmeade, I reckon," said the second Ravenclaw.

"Stuff it, Aaron," said Ronan irritably.

"We're just going to have to wait," Shauna said patiently, taking her seat. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to use the time to study. O.W.L.s start on Monday, you know."

"Provided we get out of here by then," Ronan muttered.

"Look on the bright side," Aaron said. "If you can't take 'em, you can't fail 'em, right?"

"I said, stuff it!"

Nearly an hour had passed before they heard the sound of stone grating on stone and they all excitedly descended the winding staircase to find the hole open once again, Ronan in the lead. McGonagall was standing there, along with the Grey Lady and Ciarán. Aidan ducked back up the stairs before the older boy could see him, remaining in sight of McGonagall.

"Finally!" Ronan exclaimed, hurrying through the hole.

"Just a minute, Mr. O'Connell." The Headmistress stepped over the threshold, looking gravely at the group of students before her. "Can anyone provide any information on how this happened?"

The students shook their heads.

"Aidan was the last one through," Shauna said. Aidan shrunk backward, out of sight of McGonagall and the others, but not far enough away to avoid hearing the Headmistress.

"A word, Mr. Hayes?"

He slowly climbed down the stairs, feeling like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Ciarán was staring at him curiously. _I didn't do anything!_ he reminded himself, but he still felt guilty for some reason. McGonagall eyed him with an inscrutable expression.

"The rest of you may proceed to the Great Hall for dinner," she said. The students eagerly crowded through the hole in the wall, their relieved voices echoing from the stairwell as they descended from view. Only Ciarán, McGonagall, and Aidan remained.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Mr. Hayes?"

"It's not my fault!" Aidan replied earnestly. She had to believe him!

"I do not think it is," the Headmistress responded evenly. "It would take magic of the most advanced kind to undo the spells protecting our common rooms. I would like to know, however, if you noticed anything unusual when you entered the tower."

Aidan shook his head. "The gargoyle was grouchy," he said. "But it always is. I gave it the password, and it let me in." He thought hard, trying to remember anything out of the ordinary, and something occurred to him. "Wait, you said 'common _rooms_'. Did this happen to all of them?"

The Headmistress nodded. "At almost the same time. Professor Flitwick is currently examining the charms on the various mechanisms."

At that moment, there was a roaring sound from just outside the opening and McGonagall and Aidan hurried through the hole to see the gargoyle stirring and yawning loudly, stretching its snakelike tail and beating its wings.

"It looks like it just woke up," Ciarán observed.

"What do you mean?" Aidan asked quizzically, momentarily forgetting that he was afraid to talk to the other boy.

"When I tried to get in, it was as cold and as still as a Muggle gargoyle," the dark-haired boy replied. "That was nearly an hour ago."

"That must've been about the same time as I was trying to get out," Aidan remarked, staring thoughtfully at the gargoyle.

The stone occamy blinked as it realized it was the object of scrutiny. "What?" it snapped.

"You've been asleep for nearly an hour," McGonagall informed it.

"What?" it repeated, but its tone was incredulous this time. "That's preposterous. I don't need to sleep. In over one thousand years, I have never so much as blinked."

"The fact remains that for an entire hour, you were unresponsive. Do you recall anything that happened before that time?"

"I let this one in," the occamy growled, nodding at Aidan. "Why don't you ask him? He looks guilty." Aidan started to protest, but the Headmistress held up a staying hand.

"I have already done so," she told the gargoyle smoothly. "I have no reason to believe he was responsible. Do you remember anything else?"

The gargoyle shook its serpentine head, looking uncomfortable. "No. Was I really asleep for an hour? What could cause that to happen?"

"I don't know," the Headmistress answered. "But I intend to find out." She turned to Aidan and Ciarán. "You two may go while I examine the enchantments in this area." The Grey Lady looked on with interest as McGonagall took out her wand and began waving it over the surface of the stone occamy.

The two boys turned and made their way down the tower staircase in silence. "What d'you reckon?" Aidan asked as they reached the landing.

Ciarán shrugged. "I don't know."

_It's now or never,_ Aidan thought, screwing up his courage. "Look," he began. "I'm sorry that I bit your head off yesterday." He stared intently at a spot over Ciarán's shoulder, unable to look directly at the older boy for fear of what he might see. Anger, probably, or disgust.

"It's okay," Ciarán said. Aidan glanced at the other boy's face and saw none of these expressions, just a quiet, intelligent regard.

"Really?" he asked. _Now why did I think that would be so hard?_

"Forget about it." The light from the torches mounted on the wall glinted in Ciarán's eyes, turning them into deep, liquid blue pools. Something stirred in Aidan and he forced himself to look away. _Definitely _not _what I want to be thinking about._

"Come on," Ciarán said. "I'll bet you're starving after an hour stuck in the tower."

Aidan couldn't disagree as his stomach rumbled loudly. He and Ciarán continued to the Great Hall, chatting easily, Aidan more relaxed than he had ever felt, even in the presence of the twins. He wondered briefly about that, but soon forgot as Ciarán recounted how Blair Tiernan had been discovered cowering in a corner, pale-faced and shaking, when the door to the Slytherin common room had finally come unstuck.

"Apparently he's claustrophobic," Ciarán concluded, grinning broadly.

"I would have given anything to see that," Aidan replied with a grin of his own as they sat down at the Ravenclaw table. The conversation in the Great Hall was more animated than usual, owing, no doubt, to the unusual circumstances of the evening. "It's too bad that was the first door to come undone," he added. "It might've done him some good to stew for a little while longer."

Ciarán shook his head. "He probably would've gone mad. You wouldn't want that on your conscience."

"I think I could live with it."

At the staff table, Professor Aethera rose from her seat and tapped the crystal goblet before her insistently. The noise, magically magnified, echoed from the far walls of the Great Hall. All conversation quieted as every face turned in her direction.

"Good evening to you all," she said in her brisk, breezy voice. "I have one announcement to make before we tuck in. Most of you have heard of the failure of the four common room portals by now, and for those of you who haven't, I'm certain your classmates will enlighten you. Until the portals have been given a thorough examination and the cause of the failure has been ascertained, Floo Powder will be provided for each common room. It is only to be used," she said loudly over the sudden excited murmur that broke out, "in the event of another failure. Anyone who uses it for any other reason will be severely disciplined, possibly expelled." She eyed them all with a severe expression on her pointed face. "I needn't remind you that we can and do monitor the fireplaces within the school. It is our hope to resolve the issue quickly. That is all." She resumed sitting as the tables filled with food.

"I reckon Ronan'll be pleased," Aidan said, piling mashed potatoes onto his plate. "He was nearly going out of his mind himself."

Ciarán nodded slowly, looking distant. "Do you want to hang out?" he asked after a moment. "After dinner?"

Aidan froze in the act of ladling gravy on top of his mashed potatoes. "Hang out?" He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore; his insides had constricted too tightly to accommodate even the smallest breadcrumb.

Ciarán nodded again, causing a stray lock of dark hair to fall over one eye. He brushed it aside and smiled slightly. "Just to talk."

"O-okay," Aidan said uncertainly. "We could go now." _Are you _insane_?!_ screamed a voice in his head. _Where did that suggestion come from?_ "Um, I'm not—not really hungry after all."

"Neither am I," Ciarán admitted, "but they won't let us go just yet." He nodded at the staff table, where Professor Aethera was staring pensively out at the students while the other teachers ate and talked amongst themselves.

_Whew._ "Oh." Aidan picked absently at his potatoes, which had, a moment ago, seemed so appetizing and now looked positively revolting. "Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?"

"Not really." A sudden thought seemed to occur to the older boy. "But you have homework, don't you?" He looked disappointed.

"I've got the entire weekend to do it," Aidan replied quickly. "Besides, shouldn't you be studying for your O.W.L.s?"

"Same excuse."

"So we'll both be cramming on Sunday night, then," Aidan said dryly, hoping to cover his awkwardness with an attempt at humor.

Ciarán chuckled. "Probably."

Finally, dinner was over and the students were dismissed to return to their common rooms. The Ravenclaws made their way back up the tower stairs, but Aidan and Ciarán did not join them. They wandered the lower passages instead, occasionally coming across another ghost or student as they walked and talked.

"Should we be wandering the castle this late?" Aidan asked uncertainly as the Bloody Baron wafted by silently, his gaunt features and staring eyes sending a shiver down Aidan's spine.

"As long as we don't run into Filch, we'll be okay," Ciarán replied. Argus Filch was the crotchety old caretaker of the castle, and, even in his advanced years, he still could make life unpleasant for the unwary student. "Or his cat."

They turned a corner and found themselves outside of the deserted Transfiguration classroom. "In here," Ciarán said, opening the door. Aidan followed the older boy into the darkened classroom, the only illumination provided by the moonlight streaming in through the far windows. Various cages were perched on bookshelves or stands throughout the room, their occupants hidden by loose covers that had been draped over each cage. Occasionally, one of the cages would rattle slightly as the animal inside stirred.

Ciarán closed the door carefully. "I don't think we'll have to worry about Filch in here. Pull up a seat," he said, gesturing toward the empty desks. He picked one across from Aidan and sat on the edge of the desktop, his feet resting on the chair. "You remember that I said I didn't want to talk about anything in particular?"

"Er, yeah," Aidan replied, sitting on the desktop closest to him and letting his legs dangle freely in the air. He kicked them nervously, letting them fall with a thunk against the side of the desk. There was something about the secrecy of the dark room, the sense that they should not be here, the fear of being caught that excited him and made him edgy at the same time.

"I lied." The older boy looked apologetic.

"You did?"

Ciarán nodded, impatiently brushing aside the lock of hair he knocked free. "I wanted to ask you something."

Aidan's heart was thumping loudly in his chest. "What's that?"

The dark haired boy across from him looked away, fidgeting nervously. "Are you--? Um, do you--?" he began, then shook his head and smiled ruefully. "I'm not sure how to ask. Sorry." He sighed. "Let me come back to that one." He looked up at Aidan. "What do you think of Hogwarts?"

"I don't know," Aidan replied truthfully, feeling something deflate inside him. _What was I expecting?_ he wondered.

"You know why Hogwarts was founded?"

Aidan shook his head.

"A little over a thousand years ago, witches and wizards were frightening to ordinary people. So the ordinary people did the only thing they could think of: they started hunting them down and persecuting them."

"Why?" asked Aidan.

"Because they couldn't understand. Isn't that always the way it works? Anything people can't understand, anything different, is feared." Ciarán sounded bitter. "Hogwarts was supposed to be the refuge for persecuted witches and wizards; it was supposed to be a place where people could learn to appreciate their differences, to learn to use them for the good of themselves and others."

"And it's not?" Aidan asked tentatively, startled by the older boy's sudden vehemence.

"Do you think it is? After meeting people like Blair Tiernan and his thugs?" He smiled, but there was no humor in his smile. "Guess even wizards can fall prey to elitism, to shunning anyone who doesn't meet their standard of acceptable or normal." He stood up, running his hands through his hair and staring earnestly at the younger boy. "It's not like we're a majority, Aidan, that we can ignore the rest of the world like we do. Do you know how many witches and wizards there are on the planet?"

Aidan shook his head again, wondering where the conversation was headed.

"Maybe seven hundred million. Out of ten billion people."

"That's all?"

Ciarán nodded grimly. "We act like we're a major driving force in world affairs, don't we? We talk about how Muggles don't have a clue, we laugh at them as they try to figure out how to live without magic, call them lost—but the truth is, we're the ones who're lost. We hide from Muggles, we keep to ourselves, and our society ends up stagnating." He began to pace back and forth. "And what's worse, we become victims of the same sort of prejudice that forced us to hide in the first place."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Aidan asked after a moment, thinking, _We've only known each other for a week and already he's spilling everything to me._

Ciarán shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't told anybody until now, and I guess maybe I thought you…" He trailed off and sighed heavily, seeming to withdraw into himself. "Bet I sound like a nutter, huh?"

"No. You sound angry."

Ciarán chuckled mirthlessly. "I don't think 'angry' is a strong enough word." He shook his head and sagged against the desk behind him. "I shouldn't've said anything. Forget it. I'm an idiot."

Aidan rose and went over to him. "You're not," he said hesitantly. _What am I supposed to say?_ "You're thinking, anyway. You notice. I don't even know half of this stuff."

"Give it time. You're still relatively new to the wizarding world, but if you stick around long enough, you'll see."

"Why do you stick around?"

Ciarán looked sadly at Aidan. "Because I have to. Everyone else has families, homes to go to during the summer, during the holidays, but…" He broke off, shaking his head and grinning sheepishly. "God, someone must've given me Veritaserum. I'm sorry. I'll shut up and go, shall I?" He pushed himself away from the desk.

"It's okay," Aidan said quickly. "You don't have to go. Er, that is, unless you want to." His mind was floundering underneath a welter of confused thoughts and feelings. Clearly, the older boy felt comfortable sharing these things with him, and Aidan didn't want to ruin that for him. At the same time, he felt a kind of empathy for the other boy, as if there was some kind of connection between them that he couldn't begin to fathom. _Maybe he feels that, too_, Aidan thought. It was all bewildering and he stood, staring helplessly at Ciarán as the older boy turned to face him. _Help me_, he thought. _Tell me what to do._ He didn't know who he was imploring; whether it the handsome, dark-haired boy in front of him or someone else, and it didn't matter.

"About my first question," Ciarán murmured, moving close.

Aidan nodded. "Y-yeah?" he whispered hoarsely. His heart was tap-dancing frenziedly in his head, his hands were clammy, his throat was dry—what was happening to him? He looked up fearfully as the older boy gazed down at him, the silver light of the moon reflecting from his pale eyes. _Blue,_ Aidan thought, _like the ocean. Like you could just dive right in and…what the hell am I _thinking_?_ Yet he could not help himself, he flinched slightly but remained otherwise motionless as Ciarán stepped even closer, so that their bodies were touching. He wanted to flee but his legs wouldn't move; his heart had abandoned tap-dancing in favor of break-dancing in time to loud bass rhythms and all the world seemed to slow to a crawl as the older boy leaned in cautiously, carefully, and their lips met. An electric surge traveled the length of Aidan's spine, he was terrified and at the same time he _wanted_ this, more than anything. Unbidden, the image of Morgan rose up in his mind's eye; Morgan had wanted this, too, but Aidan had been unwilling then. _He's not Morgan_, Aidan thought, but the image of the older man would not disappear, and Aidan suddenly felt very dirty. _I can't do this_.

Someone cleared their throat loudly from the direction of the doorway.

Startled, the two boys looked over to see Headmistress McGonagall standing in the open doorway, staring at both of them with one eyebrow arched. Ciarán backed away to a discreet distance, leaving Aidan panting and trembling.

"I will not ask for explanations," the Headmistress said, "as I don't really want to know." She glanced reprovingly at Ciarán. "However, I should think you would already be familiar with the rules, Mr. Dwyer, after five years at Hogwarts." She turned her baleful gaze on Aidan. "All students must return to their common rooms no later than nine o'clock." She checked her watch. "As it is now thirty minutes past nine, thirty points will be taken from Ravenclaw."

"Yes, ma'am," Ciarán murmured, looking abashed.

"Sorry," Aidan said, his voice shaking slightly, carefully avoiding McGonagall's eye.

"I suggest you two return to the tower," the Headmistress said. "And I needn't remind you, I hope, that the dormitory is for sleeping?" She glared severely at them, but one corner of her mouth was twitching slightly. "Go," she commanded, stepping to one side so that the two boys could pass. "And don't let me catch you two 'studying' anything but your lessons!"

The two boys fled down the hallway, narrowly tripping over Filch's skeletal looking cat.

"We'd better hurry," Ciarán said, eyeing the cat with intense dislike. "Filch won't be far behind." They dashed through several halls and scrambled up the stairs to Ravenclaw tower to arrive, panting, in the common room. Several pairs of eyes swiveled in their direction. Aidan fervently wished he could disappear through the floor like the Grey Lady; he was certain the other Ravenclaws would be able to divine what had occurred by their flushed cheeks or by the fact they had arrived together. Wordlessly, he hurried up the stairs to the dormitory, leaving Ciarán to do the explaining, and threw himself onto the bed, wrenching the hangings shut, grateful for the isolation the sudden darkness brought with it.

His thoughts tumbled over themselves as his pulse raced. He lay back on his pillow, attempting to come to grips with what had happened in the Transfiguration classroom. Ciarán had opened up to him, but why? And why had he responded? Why did he feel weak when he remembered the closeness, the warmth of the other boy's body as it pressed against his, or the feather-light touch of his lips against Aidan's own?

He was not a fool. He recognized the inevitable conclusion that could be drawn from his reaction to Ciarán's advances. And though he told himself he was okay with it, he really wasn't, but he didn't know why. If Brendan or Brigid turned out to be…that _way_, he knew he wouldn't care, but when it was himself, he just felt unclean. Again the image of Morgan swam into his mind's eye. _It's because of him,_ he thought. _I'm this way because of Morgan, I'm following in his footsteps, becoming like him. That's why I feel so dirty. I am what Morgan made me._

He shook his head furiously to clear it, willing the image of his hated adoptive father to disappear. _I won't do it_, he thought fiercely. _I refuse._ He would suppress his feelings; he would restrict himself to his studies from now on. He would not allow himself to become twisted and perverted by Morgan's machinations.

_But what about Ciarán?_ he asked himself, feeling guilty. _Is he twisted? Is he perverted?_ No, he decided. No, Ciarán was different. Ciarán never forced himself on anyone. _I can still be friends with him._

_But what if he wants to be more than friends?_

_Then I have to draw the line,_ he thought sorrowfully. _He might not understand, but I can't. I just can't._

Aidan heard someone come in to the dormitory and fervently hoped it wasn't Ciarán. He didn't want to face the older boy right now; his resolve was still too weak, he might give in upon seeing the older boy's face, his blue eyes filling with disappointment as Aidan tried to explain...

The person, whoever it was, stood silently for a moment. Aidan squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the urge to throw back the hangings and see who had entered the room. _Tomorrow,_ he thought as the sound of footsteps retreating down the stone stairs reached his ears. _I'll tell him tomorrow._

Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.


	7. Interlude

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

SEVEN

Ciarán did not say anything over the course of the next few days concerning their encounter in the Transfiguration classroom, and despite his resolve, Aidan could not bring himself to say anything, either. In part, this was because both he and the older boy were hard at work, one with O.W.L.s and one with a small mountain of homework, but mostly it was because Aidan didn't know what to make of his feelings, which seemed to change on an almost-continual basis. One moment, he was afraid to even think about "the kiss," as it became in his mind, and the next, he felt giddy as a result of it. It didn't help that Ciarán treated the whole thing as if it never happened; if the older boy would only give him some direction, some inkling of his own feelings on the matter—but no, he was too engrossed in his exams, and they barely saw each other at all. Before Aidan realized it, a week had passed since "the kiss" and he and Ciarán still had not discussed it.

So it was that Aidan rose early on Saturday morning, intending to corner the older boy and settle the matter once and for all. To his surprise, many of the other Ravenclaw boys were already bustling about the dormitory, packing their chests in preparation for the train ride home. He had not forgotten that the summer holiday officially began that day, but he had not expected the other boys, who were usually loathe to climb out of bed, to approach the morning, let alone a _weekend_ morning, with such fervor. Posters were being stripped from the walls, wardrobes emptied, stray toads and cats being chased down, robes hastily stuffed into chests, along with cauldrons, wands, books, quills, the occasional stray toad or cat (though quite accidentally)—in short, Ravenclaw tower was more active than it had been since Aidan arrived.

He changed quickly and made his way downstairs into the common room, hoping it would be less noisy, to find it empty save for a certain older boy sprawled on the couch before the fireplace, nose buried in a book. Swallowing his sudden anxiety, Aidan approached the couch, noting that the title of the book in Ciarán's hands was _An Exhaustive History of Magical Theory, _Volume XXI.

"Still just looking at the pictures?" he asked.

"What?" Ciarán lowered the book and sat up quickly as he saw who was addressing him. "Oh. Er, yeah."

"Does a book like that even _have_ pictures?" asked Aidan curiously.

The older boy looked somewhat embarrassed. "Um, no."

Aidan looked at the older the boy inquiringly.

"I guess I'm afraid that if people thought I was actually reading a book like this…" He trailed off and looked at Aidan uncertainly.

"They would think you were smart?" Aidan finished for him.

"_Too_ smart," the older boy corrected. "Everyone wants to be smart, but not so smart that they stick out from everybody else." He held up the book. "This isn't exactly light reading. But it's interesting."

"Oh." Aidan well remembered how he never tried to excel in any of his lessons, when he had been in public school, scraping average marks as a matter of choice rather than an indication of what he could do (except in the case of arithmetic, where his average marks were a perfect indication of his skills), for the very reason Ciarán had mentioned. No one wanted to stand out in school; the ones who did stand out, for whatever reason, usually ended up ostracized, or worse. _I don't want that to happen to me_, he thought, remembering the look on Blair Tiernan's face as he stood over him outside the History of Magic classroom, utter scorn curling his lip into an ugly sneer.

_But it's not going to. Because I'm not going to be that _way_._

There was a moment of silence as both boys shifted uncomfortably, looking away from each other. Finally, Aidan summoned up his courage. _Better tell him now, before I lose my nerve_. "About the other night…" he began.

"That was…an accident," Ciarán interjected, going slightly red. "I'm sorry if I…I don't know what came over me."

"Neither do I," Aidan said hurriedly, relieved that the older boy felt as uncertain about it as he did. "Er…I've never—um—I'm not…that _way_," he floundered, feeling as if clarification was necessary. _At least I _hope _not_, he added silently.

"Oh," Ciarán said hastily. "Neither am I."

_Then why did you kiss me?_ Aidan thought. But he kept quiet. _After all, I'm not being honest, either._

"How are your lessons getting along?" Ciarán asked abruptly, breaking the awkward silence.

"Fine," Aidan said, grateful to be given another topic to discuss; the current one was thoroughly disconcerting. "I still have a lot of ground to cover before the fall."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," the dark-haired boy said thoughtfully. "You're starting from the very beginning, aren't you?" He brushed that stray lock of hair out of his blue clear blue eyes and stared curiously at Aidan.

It was Aidan's turn to look uncomfortable. "Yes," he admitted. He had been so focused on covering up his past and his feelings that he had forgotten the other thing that made him different from every other person attending the school. Now the dark-haired boy in front of him was closing in on that, for some reason, and it made Aidan uncomfortable. _Though it's not as if he didn't get a big clue that something was going on when he saw me use my wand for the first time._

"Why?"

"I don't know," Aidan replied slowly, feeling the heat rushing into his cheeks. "I didn't get an owl on my eleventh birthday."

"Really? What happened to it?"

"They never sent one."

"You mean they _missed_ you?" Ciarán asked in mild surprise. "That's not supposed to happen." He frowned. "They usually capture the name of every wizard baby as soon as it's born."

_Every _normal _wizard baby,_ Aidan thought unhappily, his own sense of detachment from anything normal churning within him. It was a lonely feeling.

Ciarán was staring at him quizzically, as if Aidan was a puzzle that was missing a few pieces, or one with a few remaining pieces that didn't quite fit into the holes. "You're a wizard, right?"

"I don't know," Aidan said, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice. It wasn't the truth, but what did Ciarán want, anyway; a full confession? _No, I'm not a wizard, I'm something new that nobody's ever seen before and if that wasn't different enough I'm also probably g—that _way_ and slightly attracted to you for reasons I don't understand and I don't want to be and, oh, by the way, I'm hiding a dark and painful past that seems to include willing submission to the perverse machinations of a man who would be my father!_ He was breathing heavily with the effort of controlling his feelings—he really didn't want to lash out at Ciarán—but the older boy didn't seem to notice.

"If you're a wizard, I wonder why you didn't get your owl," Ciarán mused. "Were your parents wizards?"

"I don't know!" Aidan half-shouted, his frustration getting the best of him. He didn't see the point in this line of questioning; everyone, the Slytherins included, already knew that Aidan wasn't a _real_ wizard. Wasn't that explanation enough? Why did the older boy have to keep pressing him? "I don't know who my parents were! I don't know who I am! D'you want to keep rubbing that fact in my face? I don't know anything, okay?!"

Ciarán looked startled at the vehemence in Aidan's voice. "Sorry," he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to pry; I was just curious."

With an effort, Aidan reined in his emotions. _It's not his fault._

"Me, too," he muttered, throwing himself down onto the couch next to the older boy with a heavy sigh. "Believe me, if I had the answers, I'd tell you."

"Maybe we can find the answers," Ciarán suggested.

Aidan frowned at him. "What?" Realizing how rude he sounded, he hastily amended his statement. "I mean, how? Do you really think we can?"

Ciarán shrugged. "I don't know. But there's bound to be some information somewhere, and it'll give us something to do over the summer." He glanced at Aidan. "Well, it'll give _me_ something to do, anyway, while you're studying."

"So I'm to be a research project, then," Aidan said sourly. "Going to publish your findings for _An Exhaustive History of Magical Findings_?"

"Unless you'd rather not know," Ciarán said pointedly.

"Sorry," Aidan said. "I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. I just wish…" He trailed off helplessly; there was no point wishing he wasn't different when he was. At least Ciarán was volunteering to help find out why, rather than shunning him for it. "Never mind. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"What about you?" Aidan said after a moment, turning toward the older boy.

"What?"

"Well, we both know why I'm staying here for the summer, but why are you?"

Ciarán's face took on a strained look. "Fair's fair, I guess. I asked about you, you get to ask about me." He grimaced and ran one hand through his dark hair. "I guess you could say that my parents and I don't get along."

"You had an argument?"

"That's one way of putting it." Ciarán sighed. "See, I _did_ get an owl on my eleventh birthday, but when my parents found out about my magical ability, they couldn't handle it. They believed—they still do, actually—that magic is some form of bedevilment, and when I proved to be incurable, they threw me out." He sighed again. "So for the past five years, I've lived here. I probably know the castle better than Filch himself."

"Oh," said Aidan softly. As he had not been raised to be particularly religious, he had not even thought of magic in that light, but he was aware of the stigma associated with magic by those who did consider themselves to be religious. It floored him to think that a person's own parents could send their eleven year-old son packing, completely ignoring or suppressing any kind of familial tie between them and their child—but then, he had heard of similar things happening to children who were that _way_, too. He felt sympathy for Ciarán; it was one thing to never want to go back home and quite another to never be able to go back, whether you wanted to or not.

"I'm sorry I asked," he said.

"It's okay," the older boy said, forcing a smile. "I hardly even think about it anymore." But Aidan thought he saw, for just a moment, a hint of pain in Ciarán's blue eyes that belied that statement. "So, what's McGonagall got you working on, then?"

"Levitation charms," Aidan replied. "And, to go along with that, I'm supposed to start flying lessons on Monday."

"You'll like flying," Ciarán said. "Unless you're afraid of heights."

"Not really."

"I was terrified," Ciarán admitted with a small smile. "Madam Hooch had to pry me from my broom afterward."

"Well, we'll see how I handle it," Aidan said, allowing himself a small smile as well. "I mean, flying a broomstick's not exactly standard fare for me."

"You could practice a little beforehand, if you wanted. I've got a broomstick. If—if you want," Ciarán finished awkwardly.

"Really?" Aidan asked, sitting up, forgetting all of his other feelings in his sudden excitement. "I didn't know you had a broom."

The older boy shrugged. "Well, I don't take it out that often. I'm still terrified of heights. It's upstairs," he said, nodding toward the boys' dormitory, where heavy thumping and scraping could be heard. "D'you want to see it?"

Aidan nodded eagerly. The two boys made their way upstairs. Ciarán was forced to duck as he entered the dormitory; Ronan had just chucked a pillow across the room, presumably at Aaron, who was grinning madly and holding a piece of parchment in one hand. The pillow never made it to its intended target, however; it struck Aidan full in the head.

"Watch it!" Ciarán said, bending down to retrieve the pillow.

"Sorry, Dwyer," said Ronan distractedly; all of his attention was fixed on Aaron. "Give it back!"

"'Your hair is as dark as a night with no moon,'" Aaron read from the page. "You're a poet, O'Connell!"

Ronan roared and charged at the other boy. "I said, give it back!"

Aaron dodged him easily, climbing from one bed to the next, waving the parchment before him like a matador egging on an enraged bull, and, indeed, Aidan thought the comparison was apt as he watched Ronan charge again, clambering over the beds and tripping over the twisted bed sheets. The other Ravenclaw boys looked on in amusement, grinning and laughing at Ronan's plight as he struggled to untangle himself; all except Ciarán, Aidan noticed, who stood watching the whole affair with one eyebrow raised.

"Guess who Ronan fancies," Aaron said gleefully, sidestepping Ronan neatly as he threw himself onto the bed on which Aaron was standing.

"Me," said someone from the direction of the staircase. All heads in the dormitory turned to see Shauna standing at the top of the stairs, wearing an expression very similar to Ciarán's.

"Er, yeah," Aaron said, his smile fading somewhat. "Good guess."

"Please, it's been perfectly obvious to me since last summer." She walked over to Aaron and held out her hand expectantly. Ronan was blushing fiercely, panting hard, and looked like he was trying to hide beneath the sheet that was still wrapped around him.

"I was just having some fun," Aaron said defensively, handing the note to the dark-haired girl.

"Don't—read it," Ronan gasped, struggling to sit up and avoiding Shauna's eyes.

"I won't," she said softly, folding the parchment in half and holding it out to Ronan. "But we should talk."

Ronan took the page from her with downcast eyes. "Um…when?"

"Whenever you can escape the madhouse," she said in a louder voice, staring hard at the Ravenclaw boys.

"How about now?" Aaron suggested. "Maybe not," he added quickly as Shauna glared daggers at him. She turned and swept from the room. Aidan thought he heard her mutter, "Boys!" underneath her breath before she disappeared down the stairs.

The other Ravenclaw boys resumed their previous packing activities, now that the fun was over. Ciarán shook his head and tossed the pillow back at Aaron. "You go too far sometimes, Blythe," he said to the sandy-haired boy.

"It was all in fun," Aaron protested, catching the pillow. "Ouch!" he said as Ronan punched him in the side.

"That was fun, too," Ronan said grimly, unwinding himself from the sheet and standing up.

"Nobody understands me," Aaron grumbled, throwing the pillow to one side and climbing down off the bed.

"Oh, we understand you," Ronan growled. "We just don't like you sometimes."

"Fine!" Aaron snapped, storming down the dormitory stairs.

"What's his problem?" Aidan asked.

"No one knows the answer to that," said Ronan, who was rapidly recovering from the earlier excitement and was staring anxiously at the dormitory stairs as if certain doom lay at the bottom. "Well, I suppose now's as good a time as any," he murmured nervously, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "I wonder what she wants to talk about."

"It'll be fine," Ciarán said reassuringly as the red-headed boy passed by.

"Yeah," Ronan said shakily. He faltered at the top step, and then, with a heavy sigh, made his way downstairs, looking like a man on his way to the executioner's block.

"Hang on," Ciarán said to Aidan, walking over to his bed and bending down. From underneath the bed, he retrieved a large black case, roughly rectangular in shape but larger at one end than the other. "Let's go somewhere less noisy," he said loud enough for the other boys to hear as he walked back over to where Aidan was waiting. "Like the Great Hall."

"We're sorry, did you two want to be _alone_?" sniggered one of the remaining Ravenclaw boys. Aidan did his best not to blush, but Ciarán just shook his head and ignored him, descending the stairs into the common room. Aidan followed him down and into the common room. Aaron was sitting on the couch before the fireplace, scowling darkly at the hearth and glaring occasionally at Shauna and Ronan, who occupied the two armchairs in the far corner. Ronan looked startled.

"The funny thing is, all of those guys are pretty brilliant when they put their minds to it," Ciarán said as they passed the stone occamy and descended the tower stairs. "Ronan's captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and a great Beater, Aaron's a pretty fair duelist, Elijah's excellent with potions—so I'm always floored when they start acting like a bunch of chimpanzees."

Aidan didn't quite know how to respond to the older boy's observations, so he just nodded and kept quiet as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"I guess love does funny things to people," Ciarán remarked.

"Love? You mean, Shauna and Ronan?"

The dark-haired boy nodded. "I don't know if it's _love_ love, but it doesn't really have to be, apparently."

Aidan absorbed that, and a sudden thought occurred to him. "You don't think Aaron—?" he began slowly.

Ciarán nodded again. "He and Ronan have known each other for a long time."

"Oh." Aidan was silent the rest of the way to the Great Hall, lost in thought. For one thing, he had not been referring to Ronan and Aaron, but rather Aaron and Shauna. It seemed the Ciarán saw a different dynamic, though, and Aidan wondered if the older boy was somehow more attuned to things like that. _Considering I don't believe for a minute that he's not g—that _way_,_ he thought and then was ashamed of himself. _I'm stereotyping him. Why? Because I don't know anyone who's g—that _way_; I don't know how they're supposed to act._

But was that true? He knew Morgan, after all. But he wasn't sure Morgan qualified; after all, the man was married, although he had no children, save for Aidan—_which is a good thing_, he thought grimly. No one else needed to be victimized by the man. The only question was whether or not Morgan was representative of the whole group of people who were that _way_—_just say it!_ he thought angrily—or if he was something else. When he compared Ciarán to Morgan, he found so many differences that he was compelled to think the latter. _Except that I'm acting as if the bastard was representative of g—gay people. Is that fair to Ciarán? Is it fair to me?_

It wasn't fair to Ciarán; he knew that much. But he was still unsure about himself, and he entered the crowded, noisy Great Hall with no more certainty concerning himself than before. He and Ciarán found a seat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, near the staff table. Ciarán laid the dark case on the table and opened it. Inside was the most stylish broomstick Aidan had ever seen. The handle was made of a rich, dark wood that had been polished to a bright sheen; the candles floating overhead were clearly visible in the finish. The tail was made of even darker wood, each individual twig comprising it seeming to glow like the polished handle. Gold lettering on the tip of the handle proclaimed the broomstick to be a "Nimbus 2000".

"Wow," Aidan breathed.

"It's okay," Ciarán allowed. "It's more or less an antique, now."

"Where'd you get it?" Aidan asked, not taking his eyes from the broom.

"It was given to me, actually, by the previous captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team when he left last year."

Aidan looked dubiously at the dark-haired boy. "He just _gave_ it to you?"

Ciarán's cheeks took on a slightly-flushed appearance. "Pretty much. He didn't need it anymore; he'd gotten one of the new brooms. A _Zephyr XL_, I think."

Aidan thought he knew the real reason but he did not press the issue, turning back to admire the broom instead. "It looks brand-new."

"He took good care of it," Ciarán said. "And I've only ridden it a couple of times."

Aidan reached out a tentative hand, running it lightly over the handle. "I probably shouldn't ride it," he said, not a touch regretfully. "I don't want to ruin it."

"You won't," Ciarán said. "You'll probably be a better flyer than I am."

"I don't know about that," Aidan said.

"Only one way to find out."

They hurriedly ate breakfast before heading out into the cool morning air. The grass was still wet with dew; by the time he and Ciarán reached the Quidditch pitch, Aidan's shoes were soaked and his socks had developed that uncomfortable squishy feeling, but he didn't care. He was going to fly!

"I think we'll be okay here," Ciarán said, gazing around at the empty stands. "No one's going to see us."

Aidan looked around. In the distance, three golden hoops mounted atop poles rose high in the air, the morning sunlight glinting from metal. Another set stood to his right, only a few yards away. The stands looked as though they could hold several hundred people; Aidan imagined them filled with screaming fans and began to appreciate how fanatical the wizarding world was about the game of Quidditch. Aidan had never seen a Quidditch match—indeed, he had never even heard the word before he entered Hogwarts—but he had heard enough about it in the two weeks since he started to know that it was _the_ sport to play in the wizarding world.

"There's no breeze to contend with, either," Ciarán said approvingly, tipping the carrying case over and opening it. "You won't get blown off course." The _Nimbus 2000 _fell out, bouncing up into the air and righting itself, hovering in midair at waist-height, ready to be used. Aidan stared at it uncertainly. Now that he saw the broom in full daylight, it seemed impossible that it should be capable of flight, and yet it was floating unsupported before his very eyes.

"Go on, then," the older boy prompted, stepping back.

Hesitantly, Aidan approached the broomstick. "How do I get on?" he asked.

"Just put one leg over it, hold onto the handle, and let the broom do the rest."

Carefully, Aidan did as the older boy instructed, throwing one leg over the broom, which sank ever so slightly under his weight before rising slightly, so that his feet were dangling an inch above the ground.

"Hold on tight," Ciarán said.

Aidan grasped the handle tightly. The broom began to move at once, gliding slowly over the grass; without knowing why he did it, Aidan leaned forward and the broom picked up speed. He nudged the tip of the handle forward and up and the broom responded as he somehow expected it would, climbing slowly into the air. Aidan let out a whoop of delight as he discovered he the sheer simplicity of controlling the broom; he circled higher and higher into the air, until all of the Quidditch pitch was laid out beneath him and Ciarán was reduced to a miniature face staring up at him. On a sudden impulse, Aidan nudged the broom forward again and it took off, shooting over the field toward the hoops at the other end; Aidan slingshot around them and back toward Ciarán, diving toward the older boy and coming to a dead stop less than a foot away.

Ciarán looked impressed. "I thought you might have a knack for it," he said.

"Are you kidding?" Aidan said, grinning broadly. "I don't have a clue how I'm doing it. It just…feels natural." He shrugged. "D'you mind if I take it for a test flight?"

Ciarán shook his head, smiling. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll wait here."

Aidan grinned again and took off, soaring high into the air. If _this_ was the only thing the wizarding world had to offer him, if he never learned how to use his power, flying a broomstick would be more than enough. He suddenly felt as if there was nowhere he couldn't go, as if the entire world was open to him. The morning sun blazed against his skin, the cool morning air rushed over his skin, puffy white clouds blurred by overhead; the day was new and the endless possibilities stretched before him.

Lost in the sheer joy of the moment, Aidan sped over the grounds, streaking over the castle before veering toward the lake, which glinted gold and silver in the morning light, reflecting the sky and overhead. He flew low over the water, reaching down and trailing his fingers along the surface, feeling the cool water against his skin and laughing with delight. On the other side, the Hogwarts train billowed steam into the air as students gathered around it. Throwing all caution to the wind that streaked over him, Aidan flew over their heads, listening to their cheers and calls and shouting back ecstatically before circling around and heading back toward the castle, skirting so close to the edges of the Forbidden Forest that he nearly snagged his shoelaces in the uppermost branches of the trees. He veered left and spotted his next challenge: the lone tree that stood halfway between the forest and the castle, its branches waving lazily as if beckoning him closer.

Aidan shot toward it, circling it once, twice, going lower and lower, seeing how close he could get to it without actually touching it, challenging his newfound mastery of flight.

Something struck him from behind, hard, and Aidan cried out as he felt a sharp jolt, like a large club smashing painfully into his back. His stomach gave a wild lurch as he was thrown violently forward, his grip on the broom handle slipped and he fell down through the branches of the tree, which seemed to be writhing in agitation as he passed. He felt another sharp jolt as a branch whipped around and struck him full in the chest, throwing him backward with enough force to send him flying clear away from the tree, out into thin air. His stomach flipped as he felt the brief sensation of free flight, and then he was falling, faster and faster, the ground rushing up to meet him and nothing, not even a broomstick, could save him. He gasped, throwing his hands out in front of him in a vain attempt to stop the fall, but that was all he had time to do before he crashed painfully into the ground, his arms wrenching terribly.

Darkness descended swiftly upon him.


	8. Choices

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Incidentally, for those of you wondering, "Ciarán" is pronounced "Kee-Yair-AN" rather than "See-Yair-An". I could have spelled it "Kieran" but I liked the more traditional Anglicization of the Irish name. Most of my characters have Irish names.

EIGHT

There is a darkness so complete, so total that it defies the reality of light's existence. It is the night before time, before the universe took shape, before stars ignited and galaxies whirled into formation. It is hinted at in the mind at rest, in the space between dreams; it is the backdrop against which thought is projected, even the very thought that sparks a life to be, the primal awareness of selfhood, of existing as something other than the all-pervading blackness, a solitary light in the night. Aidan found himself surrounded by this darkness, and was not afraid. A pale orange radiance seemed to emanate outward from him, but it found no form on which to fall, no shape to illuminate save his own. He was alone in the void.

Something tickled the back of his mind, a memory, a sense of recognition, as if he had been here before. But he could not catch the fleeting thought, try as he might; his mind only seemed partially awake, and only on a very basic level, so that all he could comprehend or concern himself with was the ever-present _now_. The past and the future were nothing more than fuzzy concepts, at best, and there was nothing but the night now, and so he waited patiently for something to happen, now.

Something did. Gradually he began to perceive others in the darkness. They seemed to be formless, the light he cast did not reflect from them, but they cast light of their own—pale, sickly, feeble light, like dying coals. There was an aura of intense sorrow in that light, as if it was in mourning for glory lost, as if once the others had burned brightly, intensely, beautifully, but no more. There were thousands and thousands of them undulating gently in the silent darkness, looking like a sea of tiny stars, only stars were not so painful to look at, nor as dim as these.

Without knowing how he did it, as there was nothing to resist him, nothing to push off from, seemingly born on his will alone, he glided closer to the wan lights, curious, hesitant lest he should disturb them and cause them to lose even that luminosity which they possessed. As he drew closer to one, its pale radiance flared briefly in response to his own, like an ember fanned by a passing breeze, and in that brief flare, Aidan perceived a sense of familiarity. Tentatively, he reached out a hand toward the tiny spark, cupping it in his palm. At once, a welter of sights and sounds flooded his senses, a confusing jumble of people and places, of pain and heartache, triumph and elation, love and loss—memories, Aidan realized, the memories of a person, though he could not determine who. He released the spark, suddenly aware that he was intruding on the life of another, and the pale light bobbed free, gliding silently back to its previous position. Aidan stared at the rising and falling pinpricks of washed-out light stretching into the distance. They were all people; people with dreams and hopes that had once filled the night sky with brilliance and who had now, inexplicably, lost those hopes and dreams and had diminished as a result. The sadness emanating from them was palpable, the unutterable sorrow that springs from losing a part of oneself so vital, so close to one's being, to everything that a person is, that a person never recovers. A person might go on, despite the loss, but they would be forever changed, forever incomplete, forever alone in the night, though they be surrounded by a hundred thousand others. This was the grief that swept over Aidan as he gazed at the sea of failing light, and he wept silently, overcome.

_This is the Third Darkness_.

Aidan turned to see the firebird staring at him mournfully, its own light subdued, as if its own fire was in danger of going out.

"Why?" he choked. "How?"

_A mistake._

Aidan wiped the tears from his face with the back of one hand. "You mean, it's not supposed to happen?"

_No. That is the most sorrowful part of all. The one who brings this about intends it, but that person cannot foresee the consequences, only their own pain._

"Who is it? Tell me who it is," Aidan pleaded. "Maybe I can stop them, before it is too late."

_The Second Darkness brings about the Third. Even now, it is moving toward that end. You must share your fire, else all will be forever lost._

"But who is it?" Aidan asked. The firebird looked sorrowfully at him, but did not reply. It seemed to Aidan that it was slipping slowly away, fading into the darkness, until he realized that he was the one moving; he was rising up, out of the darkness, into a blinding light, and abruptly he awoke, blinking in the sunlight that shone in his face. A soft bed was beneath him, a feathery pillow cushioned his neck, but the extent of his comfort ended there as several dull pains entered his awareness; different parts of his aching body clamoring for attention now that he was awake. The memory of the fall returned to him, and he groaned softly. That had been a particularly stupid thing to do, to approach the tree so closely, but he had been lost in the thrill of his first flight and had not expected a tree to actually reach out and swat at him, as if he was nothing more than an annoying flying insect.

"So you're awake, are you?" said the voice of an older woman. "About time, too. What did you think you were playing at, flying so close to the Whomping Willow?" A woman with curly gray hair, tied back into a tight bun, and what might have been a kindly expression, was she not looking sternly at him, appeared in his vision. "Move your arms," she instructed impatiently.

Obediently, Aidan did as he was told, raising first one arm, then the other. The older woman, who Aidan recognized as Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, examined his arms and hands critically.

"Can you wiggle your fingers?" she asked.

Aidan did, wincing slightly as a mild pain shot up his arm.

"Well, your arms seem to have mended well enough," she said teresely. "There'll be some pain for a while, though; you don't mend sixty-six bones all at once without some pain." She eyed him reprovingly. "I can mend thick skulls easily, but unless you want to haunt Hogwarts with the other ghosts, I suggest you think twice if any more death-defying notions enter that head of yours."

"Sorry," Aidan mumbled, feeling suitably chastised. Madam Pomfrey stared hard at him for a moment, then turned away with a swish of her robes.

"You can see him now," she said to someone outside of Aidan's vision.

Aidan turned his head to see Ciarán and Headmistress McGonagall standing a few feet away.

"Wait here a moment," McGonagall said sharply to the older boy, striding over to the bed with a look on her face that was ten times worse than Madam Pomfrey's. Aidan grimaced, bracing himself for the worst.

"Well?"

Aidan looked up at McGonagall helplessly, unable to think of a response.

"I must admit, I expected better of you, Mr. Hayes," the Headmistress said after a moment. "Flying a broomstick without the proper instruction, with no regard for your own well-being or the rules, and over the Whomping Willow, no less! What were you thinking?"

Aidan shrugged, an act that sent another jolt of pain through his arms. What was he supposed to say?

"Do you realize how very fortunate you are to have survived that encounter? Do you know how much anxiety you have caused?"

Aidan glanced over at Ciarán, who looked pale and concerned, and suddenly felt guilty. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Are you?" the Headmistress snapped. "You very well should be. If you were assigned to a house, I would be docking points for your reckless behavior. As it is, I expect you to exhibit a good deal more intelligence in the future. Have I made myself understood?"

Aidan nodded, unable to look the Headmistress in the eyes. If it had been just her rebuke, Aidan could have withstood it, expected as it was, but Ciarán's worried look, something Aidan had not expected, struck him deeper than McGonagall's icy stare for reasons he did not want to admit to himself, and he was ashamed.

"Very well," McGonagall said, though she did not sound at all satisfied. "Madam Pomfrey informs me that you will be able to resume your lessons as usual on Monday, and I expect that you will pursue them diligently, Mr. Hayes." She gestured for Ciarán to approach. "I will leave you and Mr. Dwyer alone."

Ciarán walked up to the bed as McGonagall swept from it. Aidan forced himself to look at the older boy, into his blue eyes, which were filled with concern. "I'm sorry," he said again, pouring as much sincerity into the words as he could muster. He did not want the older boy to hate him or to be angry with him.

"For what?" Ciarán said softly.

"For…" Aidan faltered. What if Ciarán hadn't worried? What if he was just assuming he did, what if he was reading too much into the older boy's expression? "If—if I made you worry."

Ciarán shrugged. "Despite what McGonagall says, making a person worry is not a cardinal sin." He brushed the stray lock of hair out of his eyes, gazing down at Aidan with a strange expression in his eyes, one that made Aidan uncomfortable. "I'm just glad you're all right," he said quietly.

"It was pretty stupid, huh?" Aidan said, looking away lest he respond to the older boy's look, remembering the wild thrashing of the willow's limbs as it knocked him from the broom. _The broom!_ Ciarán's broom had surely been destroyed by the tree's onslaught. "Did your broom…?" Aidan began, afraid to inquire after its fate.

"It's okay," Ciarán said. "It kept going, apparently, and it made it out all right."

Aidan breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good," he said. It was bad enough to cause Ciarán to worry without having also destroyed his property.

Ciarán nodded. "Yeah. Not even a scratch. I guess the willow was more interested in you."

Aidan pulled himself into a sitting position and grimaced as his ribs and arms protested loudly. "I guess so. How long was I out?"

"A few hours," Ciarán said. "I found you at the tree and brought you here."

"Thanks," Aidan said, not knowing what else to say. "Why does the school even have a tree like that?"

"It's always been here. I should've warned you about it, when I showed you around the grounds." Ciarán looked down. "I guess I forgot," he said apologetically.

"Don't," Aidan said, holding up a staying hand. He didn't want the other boy to berate himself for anything. "Don't worry about it. I'm the idiot who went flying into a tree. I probably would've done it even if I'd known. I got carried away. It's my fault." He lapsed into silence, staring intently at the older boy, who stared right back, that same expression in his eyes—_he cares_, Aidan realized, _he actually _cares—until Madam Pomfrey bustled over to them.

"That's enough time," she said briskly. "Mr. Hayes still needs his rest."

Ciarán nodded and reached out toward Aidan with one hand. Aidan flinched, afraid, uncertain, wondering—but the older boy merely laid the hand on his shoulder and patted it awkwardly. "Feel better," he said before allowing Madam Pomfrey to escort him to the door.

Aidan sat back, confused—what had he been expecting? But he knew the answer to that as the memory of Ciarán's body pressed against his rose unbidden in his mind, as he recalled the feel of his touch, and he shivered. _It's not that!_ he told himself, shaking his head furiously. _He can't feel that already! We've known each other all of two weeks, and _I_ don't even know what I feel; how could he possibly know?_

_Even if he does know, nothing can happen._ He sighed and lay back, willing the softness of the bed to lull him into relaxation as he stared up at the arched stone ceiling of the infirmary. _Not until I know. And I don't even know where to begin._ He sighed again. There would be no way for him to even consider a relationship with anyone until he came to terms with his past, with the things that Morgan had done to him and his own role in them. He did not relish the thought of having to do that; better that he was alone forever than experience the pain and humiliation all over again and possibly discover some things about himself he would sooner remained hidden. Yet he could not accept that outcome; he did not want to lead a solitary life. He wished there was another way, but no alternate paths opened up before him. He could either deal with it, or not; both paths led to their own destinations, and Aidan was stuck at the crossroads, unwilling to budge. Sooner or later, though, he would have to decide, and it might have to be sooner, judging from what he thought Ciarán was feeling. He doubted the older boy would wait forever.

_It's not fair!_ he mentally shouted at the ceiling, and his thought seemed to echo from the stone and return, albeit modified so that it resembled a phrase he already knew well. _Life is not fair. And no one said it would be._ He grumbled about that for a while, as the sun sank low, eventually disappearing beneath the window. Finally, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, and his thoughts no longer seemed to follow a coherent pattern, tumbling aimlessly over themselves. _I wonder if I'll have another strange dream,_ he thought drowsily…

He was laying in the darkness, but this darkness was not the same as before; it was brighter, as if illuminated by some source of light. He looked and saw the bright, pale disc of the moon peeking through the window of the boy's dormitory, looking larger than life. Someone else was in bed with him, someone familiar; Aidan looked over and saw Ciarán sitting on the edge of the bed, shrugging out of his shirt. His heart lurched in his chest, and he felt a sudden tingling in his extremities as the older boy crawled over to him, straddling his waist and leaning forward until he was right above him, supporting himself on his surprisingly-well-defined arms while gazing intently into Aidan's eyes.

"Do you want this?" the older boy whispered.

Aidan froze, his heart pounding in his head. _God yes!_ said a part of him, but another part of him responded with fear and dread. _No, I don't!_ He stared mutely at the older boy as he leaned in closer, until his lips were brushing Aidan's own. Aidan gasped as another electric thrill surged through his body, mingling with his desire and overwhelming his fear momentarily. He returned the kiss, pouring himself into it, losing himself in the moment, which stretched into an eternity without thought, and when Ciarán finally broke the kiss, it felt as if Aidan had lost a part of himself as well.

He had. He stared in confusion as a trail of fire burned brightly between their mouths, connecting them. Ciarán's eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, seemingly inhaling the power streaming from Aidan's lips, and Aidan suddenly recalled the image of a succubus he had once seen enacted on a television screen, and he was afraid. _This isn't right!_ He wanted to struggle, to break the connection, but he found his arms were bound tightly in heavy casts that felt like lead weights. Try as he might, he could not lift them.

"Shouldn't have flown into the tree," Ciarán said with a malevolent grin. He was glowing now, burning with the same fire Aidan recognized as his own. Flames seemed to lick at his bare skin without burning him, and he laughed maniacally, his features suddenly shifting into another's.

"You shouldn't have kissed me, either," Morgan said, pinning him to the bed by his shoulders. "Now you are powerless."

"NO!"

Aidan sat up, panting heavily, the images of the dream still emblazoned on his mind's eye. He blinked them away, trying to orient himself to his surroundings. The infirmary was dark, save for a patch of silver-white moonlight on the floor. His heart was pounding heavily in his head, his breath coming in short gasps. His arm throbbed painfully as he ran one clammy hand over his forehead. While all of his strange dreams had been disturbing, this last one was downright chilling. _Ciarán is _not _Morgan_, he reminded himself, but he could not shake the image of the older boy's metamorphosis from his mind.

_Isn't he like Morgan?_ said the voice of his fear and doubt. _An older guy who has some interest in you beyond the boundaries of friendship? And he already took advantage of you once, stealing that kiss. Who's to say he won't try it again, perhaps more forcefully next time?_

Aidan shook his head. _Not Ciarán. Ciarán is different._

_Do you know that? Are you willing to take the risk? Are you willing to be hurt again, powerless to stop what will happen to you?_

_I'm not powerless._

_Not yet. Give yourself over to Ciarán and see how long that lasts._

He lay back on the pillow, feeling sorrow and disappointment wash over him as he knew what he must do, and hating himself for coming so readily to the decision. _I have no choice,_ he thought. _Except to go through all of the fucking pain from my past all over again._

Somehow, he thought Ciarán would be worth it, but he pushed that notion aside. _I can't do it. I have to tell him I can't._ He lay awake the rest of the night, dreading the coming of the dawn.

"What?" Ciarán asked, staring at Aidan uncomprehendingly. He had come by to visit Aidan as soon as the sun was up, despite Madam Pomfrey's objections that Aidan should not be exerting himself so early in the morning.

Aidan repeated himself. "I said I can't do it."

"Do what?" Ciarán asked, looking thoroughly confused.

_Don't make me say it,_ Aidan pleaded with the older boy in his mind. _Don't make it more painful than it has to be._ Out loud, he said, a touch of his discomfort sounding in his voice, "You know."

"No, actually, I don't."

Aidan sighed and closed his eyes. _It's never easy, is it?_ He felt strangely detached from his feelings, as if, now that he had firmly decided on a course of action, they had ceased their dissent.

"I can't…get into a relationship with you," Aidan said, opening his eyes. "I know that's what you want, Ciarán. I can see it in your eyes."

Ciarán blinked and looked surprised. "Oh," was all he said.

"I'm sorry," Aidan pressed on. "I wish I could."

"Saw right through me, did you?" Ciarán asked, and his voice had an edge to it. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then closed it and sighed, disappointment registering on his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured finally. "I guess I thought—or hoped—that maybe…that maybe you…"

Aidan shook his head. "I'm not." Even the guilt that rose up as he spoke the lie seemed remote, smothered by his inflexible will. _I will not be._

"Are you sure?" Ciarán asked, then shook his head. "Sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask." He bit his lower lip, looking suddenly lost, sighing heavily. "Can we still be friends?"

_No,_ said a voice, the same voice that had risen up the previous night inside Aidan's head. _Don't give in. You must never see each other again, or else you risk losing yourself, even as you do now._ But Aidan couldn't bring himself to say it. "Yes," he said with an effort.

Ciarán nodded. "Well, I guess I'd better…um, before Madam Pomfrey comes back."

"Right," Aidan said.

"I'll see you around, then," Ciarán said, retreating hastily.

Aidan watched him go, at once relieved and ashamed. He was relieved that he would not have to deal with his past, but he felt guilty for numerous reasons, all of them valid. He was taking the coward's way out, he felt, and he was disappointing Ciarán, who he really liked, and he was dodging the responsibility he felt his strange dreams with the firebird had placed upon him. He was not going to share any part of himself with anyone. He saw again the dying stars of the first dream, the fading embers of the second—the Third Darkness, which he might prevent, somehow, by sharing his fire with someone, in some way—and he saw the sorrowful look in the bird's eyes, reproaching him, and he wanted to scream with frustration. Instead, he buried his head underneath the pillow and wept bitterly. Unknown to him, just down the hall from the infirmary, Ciarán was doing the same.


	9. Explanations

**Author's Note:** It feels like an eternity since I started this story. I apologize to anyone who was waiting breathlessly for this chapter (I hope it didn't hurt too much when you passed out). I don't know if you've ever had the experience, but when you try to ignore life, it just becomes more insistent until it completely takes over and then you have no choice but to deal with it for a while. No? Well, shoot. Anyway, here it is!

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

NINE

And so he ran until every muscle in his body ached, until the sweat was pouring down his face and his breaths were coming in short gasps, until his heart was thundering in his head and his body screamed for a pause, and then, only then did he collapse to the ground, exhausted, weeping sweat and tears, panting heavily with the terror creeping up on him as his pursuer drew near: the giant wall of darkness, the night, the void that was not empty but was full of a thousand and one souls whose brilliance had been snuffed out in an instant. The wall of night, the eternity of shadow towered above him, casting its dark regard down on the small figure before it, and then, with a savage howl of triumph, it crashed down on him, deafening him with a roar like thunder.

And he awoke, panting, his stomach clenched tightly with fear, his every muscle on fire, his pulse racing. It was an eternity, it felt, before he could even move, before he could run his fingers over the familiar bedspread, feel the coarse fabric beneath his fingers, reassure himself of its reality and the fact that he was indeed in the waking world.

"You were having a nightmare again," said a low voice, the only voice he wanted to hear, and the one voice he had not heard enough of for almost a month. After Aidan's recovery from his broom accident, his relationship with Ciarán had been somewhat strained, reduced to mere greetings as they passed in the corridors, a brief nod, but nothing more. Aidan was left to concentrate on his studies, and he gradually began to realize just how big and empty a castle could really feel. Now, it seemed, Ciarán was content to let their relationship lie, while Aidan, given his circumstances, wanted more.

"Yeah," Aidan muttered thickly, his tongue as reluctant to move as the rest of his body, frozen still by the terror of his dream. "Again," he managed after a moment.

"How many nights in a row now?" the older boy asked.

"I've lost count."

"You should tell someone. McGonagall."

"No." Aidan shook his head. The last thing he needed or wanted was for McGonagall to think he wasn't ready to join the rest of the Third Years when term began again, to think she'd been pushing him too hard.

"What will you do?"

Aidan sighed and turned on his side, so that his back was to the older boy in his bed across the room. The conversation was not turning out at all like he wanted; instead of sounding concerned, Ciarán's tone was matter-of-fact and disinterested. "Hope they go away."

Ciarán grunted but made no further efforts to reply. Within a few moments, Aidan heard the sounds of slow breathing that indicated the older boy had fallen asleep and he sighed again, turning over in his bed so that he was facing Ciarán's, so that he could pick out the features of the older boy's face as they were illuminated in the soft moonlight filtering through the window, serene and untroubled by dreams of darkness. He felt a wave of emotion overtake him—longing, sorrow—and instinctively fought it back, squeezing his eyes shut and willing it to subside. It was hard; he wanted the easy peacefulness that was evident on Ciarán's face, the lack of concern, but it was more than that. There was the promise of contentment, visible in the way the silver light of the moon softened the older boy's features, the way it seemed to lovingly caress them, and Aidan lay awake for a long time simply staring at the older boy across the way, until, at last, he felt the weariness overtaking him again, and he finally drifted off to sleep.

It was not enough.

The resounding snap of a book being shut jolted Aidan awake. The light shining through the windows of the Transfiguration classroom was exceedingly bright for some reason, and it took Aidan a moment to realize that he had fallen asleep in the middle of his lesson. He looked up, bleary-eyed, to see McGonagall glaring at him, and immediately braced himself for the worst.

"Do explain why it is so difficult for you to stay awake in my lessons, won't you?"

"Sorry," Aidan mumbled, pulling himself into a sitting position. _Why does it always feel like I'm apologizing to her?_ he wondered. _Probably because I'm always doing something wrong,_ another voice answered.

"Are you ill?" McGonagall asked, frowning as she took Aidan's disheveled look with a brief glance.

"No," Aidan answered, shaking his head. "Just…bad dreams."

"Indeed?" the Headmistress said tersely, but her stare had softened somewhat. "What sort of bad dreams?"

_How much do I want to tell her?_ Aidan wondered. _Everything!_ But, at best, she would think he was overworked and not ready to join the Third Years at the beginning of term. _At worst, she'll think I'm a nutter and have me locked away._ In the wizarding world or not, repeating dreams of fire and darkness were likely to evoke the same sort of response: a one-way trip to the asylum. Aidan shifted uncomfortably in his seat as McGonagall's expectant stare bored into him. "It's nothing," he mumbled finally, avoiding her stare.

"Oh, surely you can do better than that," said McGonagall. "I expect your dreams to be nothing less than signs and portents of things to come, Mr. Hayes; anything else is simply not a valid excuse."

"It's not an excuse!" Aidan snapped, suddenly irritated. All of the late nights spent poring over moldy old tomes, hunting for some bit of obscure knowledge that McGonagall had assigned him to track down, combined with the fact that for the past month he'd been unable to sleep the entire night through without being plagued by dreams he couldn't understand and McGonagall's dismissal of the whole thing as an "excuse"—all pooled together to form a seething mass of resentment within him, and without thinking, he blurted out, "_You_ try having dreams about the Third Darkness every night!"

_This time I've gone too far,_ Aidan thought with a sinking feeling, as McGonagall stared at him, clearly taken aback. _She'll expel me for sure. I'll have to live on the streets, because there's no way I'm going back to that house._ "I'm sorry," he said hastily, hoping to amend the situation. "I'm just tired."

"I see," McGonagall said after a moment, quickly regaining her composure. "Well, in that case, I think perhaps it's best if you have the rest of the day free. I shall inform the other professors that I've excused you from lessons, and I want you to return to the tower and rest."

Aidan started to protest, more out of habit than any real conviction, but the Headmistress cut him off with a look.

"Rest," she repeated firmly. "No homework, no strenuous activity. Do you understand?"

Aidan nodded mutely and began gathering up his things, all the while wondering what had caused her abrupt change in attitude. Could there possibly be something to his dreams? He'd already been half-entertaining that idea and her reaction certainly seemed to confirm it; but then, why was she ushering him off to bed rather than explaining things?

_Unless she really does think I've lost it and she plans to have me put away._ He shook his head and followed her out of the classroom.

"Rest," she repeated one more time before turning and marching away.

Aidan watched her go, torn between the desire to follow her and the desire to do as he was told. Finally, he sighed and trudged in the opposite direction, toward Ravenclaw tower. Whatever she knew, he could not force her to explain it to him, any more than he could force Ciarán to talk to him or force the storm brewing outside, visible through the arched windows, to change course. On the other hand, he doubted he would be able to rest, despite the firmness of McGonagall's command; his dreams simply would not allow it.

Wearily, he climbed the stairs to Ravenclaw tower, pausing to give the password to the irritable stone occamy, and clambering through the opening behind it. A fire was already blazing in the fireplace as he entered the common room, no doubt in preparation for the gathering storm. Ciarán was lounging in a chair before it, leafing idly through another heavy book; he did not look up at Aidan or acknowledge him in any way. Sighing again, Aidan made his way up into the dormitory, throwing his books and schoolwork onto the nightstand before collapsing on the bed. Through the window across the way, the leaden clouds were visible, and there was something ominous in their look that mimicked the darkness from his dreams. Aidan shivered as a feeling of foreboding washed over him; quickly, he turned his back to the window as the first distant rumble of thunder resounded outside, followed by the gentle patter of raindrops against the glass.

_It's just a summer shower,_ he told himself. _It happens all the time._ But the clouds were darker, more sinister than he had ever seen them, and he could not easily divest himself of the unease that was building in him like a thunderhead, though his rational mind argued that he was being foolish. He tossed and turned on the bed for a few moments before abandoning all hope of achieving any kind of relaxed state.

_Maybe it would be better if I sat in front of the fireplace downstairs,_ he decided, sitting up. _The warmth might help me relax._ _Of course,_ he thought as he climbed down the stone stairs from the dormitory, _Ciarán will probably studiously ignore me, but there's nothing for it._

Ciarán's chair was empty, however, save for the book he had been paging through, and Aidan frowned as his anxiety increased. The wind raced past the windows in the common room, setting the glass to rattling in its frames, and setting Aidan's nerves on edge. It was not like the older boy to leave a book lying around; in fact, Aidan couldn't recall ever seeing Ciarán put one down. He picked up the volume from where it lay, seating himself in the chair and studying the cover curiously. The words, "An Exhaustive History of Magical Theory" had been embossed into the leather cover; their gilded forms glinted in the firelight. Aidan considered them for a moment before opening the book, letting the pages fall through his fingers and staring in consternation as page after page came up blank. There was not a line of text to be seen anywhere in the book.

_There has to be some trick to it,_ Aidan thought, tilting the book toward the fire to see if more light would illuminate the hidden text. When that failed, he tried flipping the book upside-down, then paging through it backward, even thumping the barren pages with his forefinger and saying, "Show me something, anything!" His efforts were all in vain; the book might as well have been blank, written by some mad author as a joke. Utterly confounded, Aidan clasped it to his chest and wondered what was going on as the wind howled outside, while the rain lashed at the windows as the storm became fully realized and the sky grew darker and darker and darker…

It was dark in this place, but it was not the vast, all-encompassing darkness of prior experience; rather, it was an intimate space—smaller, more personal. Nonetheless, Aidan found that he was unable to see to the end of it, and though it felt as if he was moving through it, he could not gauge how far he had come or whether he had made any progress at all. Gradually, as his sight adjusted to the darkness, he began to perceive a form in the distance. As he drew closer to it, his eyes were suddenly dazzled by a bright light from overhead, as if a spotlight had suddenly switched on, and it took some few moments for his vision to clear. To his surprise, Ciarán was standing before him, dressed in a tuxedo that was as dark as his surroundings, except where it was illuminated by the bright light from somewhere overhead. He bowed low as Aidan approached, sweeping a top hat from his head before tossing it to one side and stepping close. The spot of light gradually widened until it included the two of them, while from all sides, thousands of candles flared to life, revealing a grand ballroom Aidan had once seen in a picture when he was younger, all gold and white marble with elaborate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and exquisitely-wrought candelabras ensconced in the walls.

"Shall we dance?" Ciarán asked. Before Aidan could respond, the older boy had taken one hand in his own, placing the other on the younger boy's waist and the music began. It was music unlike anything Aidan had ever heard before: a thoughtful, slow rhythm, like a dirge; stately and graceful, but altogether inappropriate for dancing. Yet Ciarán danced, leading him around the marble floor in a slow kind of procession, never speaking, his eyes locked on Aidan's own.

_I'm dreaming,_ Aidan thought, _but this is nothing like my previous dreams._

"No," Ciarán agreed. "It isn't."

"Where'd you go?" Aidan asked, momentarily forgetting himself. "You weren't in the common room."

"Oh, I had things to take care of," Ciarán said lightly, spinning Aidan around. "In the end, it comes down to you and me."

"What?" Aidan asked as he spun and his surroundings flashed by, a whirl of light and color.

"You and me," Ciarán said, catching Aidan at the end of the spin and letting him fall against his outstretched arm, leaning in close. "You and me."

"What does that m—" Aidan began, but Ciarán pressed his lips against Aidan's own and he promptly forgot the question.

"You and me," Ciarán repeated, breaking off the kiss and taking the lead again. "The beginning and the end."

"Of what?"

"Everything," Ciarán said with a grin, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world. "Time to wake up!"

"Now? But I—"

A loud crash of thunder startled Aidan from his sleep. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the windows overhead, wondering how long he had been asleep. Darkness had fallen outside, and the sound of rain striking the glass was still audible, though the wind had subsided somewhat. The fire burned low in the hearth, which gave a fair indication of how long he had been asleep. He stood and stretched, letting the empty book fall to the floor and shaking his head at the strange turn his dreams had taken.

_ I wonder if I'll ever have a normal night's sleep again_, he thought, stifling a yawn and glancing at the stone stairs leading up to the boys' dormitory. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to go up there to see if Ciarán was back, but he decided against it, afraid of finding out that the older boy was not. His sense of foreboding had not been dispelled by his slumber, only dampened somewhat, and the thought of having to spend a stormy night alone in the tower was an uncomfortable one. Instead, he determined he would see if he could find the kitchens and nick some food; having slept through dinner, his stomach was reminding him of the necessity of a good meal.

As he slipped through the opening, the occamy shook itself slightly and snapped, "Don't you ever keep normal hours?" He ignored it and crept down the tower stairs, pausing with every flash of lightning as an irrational fear gripped him. Finally he made it out into the deserted corridors of the school, nearly dark save for the intermittent torch set high into the wall at intervals, their flickering light casting dancing shadows on the portraits that lined the walls. Occasionally, one of the occupants of the portraits would stir as he slipped past and utter words of warning about being out so late, but Aidan paid no attention to them, focusing all of his concentration on the idea of finding the kitchen so he would not have to acknowledge the fear that was creeping up on him, preventing him from looking over his shoulder at the darkness and gloom behind him.

A sudden noise in the passage ahead of him startled him, causing him to flatten himself against one wall, much to the annoyance of its occupants. A few feet away, another corridor intersected this one, and Aidan could hear the sound of footsteps making their way along the stone floor, drawing closer. Aidan pressed himself against the wall and waited with baited breath as Headmistress McGonagall swept past, holding her lighted wand aloft and looking neither left nor right. Overcome with curiosity, Aidan decided to follow her, forgetting his hunger and the fact that the portraits could speak.

"Behind you, then!" called one of them and Aidan froze in the act of stepping away from the wall.

McGonagall paused and turned around, holding her wand even higher so that its light washed over Aidan. "I might have expected as much," she muttered upon seeing Aidan. "Well, come along, then!"

Aidan shot daggers at the portrait and grudgingly walked over to the Headmistress, who turned and wordlessly led them at a brisk pace down the corridor. Aidan gasped involuntarily as a large, ugly shape suddenly loomed out of the darkness, prompting a sideways glace from the Headmistress.

"All right?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

Aidan nodded, not trusting himself to speak lest his voice come out in a squeak while silently chiding himself for being afraid of the great stone gargoyle before them.

"Quinquatria!" McGonagall said, and Aidan gaped as the gargoyle obediently leaped to one side while, with the noise of much grating of stone against stone, the wall behind it opened up, revealing a spiral stone staircase that literally wound its way up into the darkness, constantly moving with a dull grinding sound. The Headmistress stepped forward, and Aidan followed. The moment their feet touched the stone staircase, the wall ground shut behind them, closing with a resounding thud as the staircase whisked them upward. It was only a matter of minutes before they were deposited at the top of the stairs, before an oak door with a golden knocker.

"The office of the Headmistress," McGonagall explained, "though I use it very rarely." She turned the handle and together they stepped inside.

Even had she not said so, Aidan would have been able to tell that the Headmistress did not make regular use of the office; it was far too dusty and dark. On a table in one corner, what might once have been gleaming metal instruments of some kind sat in cold, dusty silence. Cobwebs stretched from the tops of the bookshelves seated in another corner to the ceiling, which receded into darkness overhead. A single flickering candle provided the room's only illumination, except where the occasional flash of lightning shone through the drapes that had been drawn tight over the windows in the far corner. Overhead, Aidan could see a great many wooden frames, undoubtedly containing portraits like those found in the halls of the school; these, too, were covered with a film of dust, except for one directly over the door behind him, whose occupant regarded them with twinkling blue eyes behind silver half-moon spectacles, the ghost of a smile visible in the midst of his flowing white beard.

"This is indeed an unexpected delight," said the man in the picture, glancing first at Aidan before turning his gaze on the Headmistress. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight, Minerva?"

Aidan glanced at the Headmistress and saw a curious sort of tension in her face. "I need your help," she said simply.

"As ever, I am happy to lend assistance where it is required," said the old man.

McGonagall nodded. "Mr. Hayes, meet Albus Dumbledore, quite possibly the finest headmaster Hogwarts has seen these many years."

The old man in the portrait chuckled. "You give me far too much credit, Minerva. All I ever did was sit around and attempt to look important."

"You did a great deal more than that, I should think," the Headmistress replied fervently. She checked herself and nodded at Aidan. "This is Aidan Hayes, a recent addition to the school."

"Hullo," Aidan said politely, somewhat unnerved to be talking to an animated portrait.

"I understand you've been sneaking about the halls at all hours of the night," the old man remarked with a twinkle in his eye. "In the future, do try to avoid being caught."

McGonagall grimaced. "Please don't encourage him, Albus. I'm sure he's quite capable of managing mischief on his own."

"Oh, I _am_ sorry," said Dumbledore in mock seriousness. "I continue to forget that it is not the place of an educator to encourage students to do anything." He winked cheerfully at Aidan, who grinned despite himself.

"That's not what I meant," said McGonagall in exasperation.

Dumbledore smiled. "No. But we must all laugh at ourselves sometimes, Minerva, and encourage others to do the same, lest we take ourselves and our surroundings too seriously."

"My only thought is for the welfare of the school," the Headmistress said tightly.

"No one has worked more tirelessly than you toward that end," Dumbledore agreed. "You put many, if not all, other headmasters and headmistresses to shame, myself included."

"I could never—" the Headmistress began, and her voice caught, so that she was forced to break off her sentence. Aidan felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he had stumbled into something he would not otherwise have been privy to. There was a moment of silence while McGonagall regained her composure before she continued.

"Would you please talk to Mr. Hayes?" she asked the portrait in measured tones, then, turning to Aidan, she said, "Tell him about your dreams. Tell him everything that you can remember. I have—business—to attend to, but I will return in an hour." She nodded to both of them and departed, closing the door behind her.

Dumbledore sighed.

"I've never seen her so upset," Aidan remarked.

"It is often difficult for a person to accept the loss of the ones they care for."

Aidan blinked as the implications of the old man's statement settled in. "But…you're still here," he pointed out.

The old man smiled. "Yes…and no. What you see is akin to an afterimage of the real Albus Dumbledore, a mere shadow of his personality. It is traditional for the departing headmaster or headmistress to leave behind such an imprint, in the form of a portrait, to counsel their successors." He chuckled. "Of course, there are limitations, as with all forms of magic, and I'm afraid my advice may be less helpful than she hopes. Still, I will do what I am able." He looked expectantly at Aidan.

"Er," said Aidan, feeling uncomfortable under the old man's gaze. Although it was benign, he felt as if there was nothing the old man did not know, no secret that was unrevealed to him, and the thought made him distinctly uncomfortable. Of course, he realized he should be used to the idea that people in the magical world understood more about him then he did—he'd gotten that already from both McGonagall and Ollivander—and it rankled him that they could so easily figure him out, and even more so that none of them would properly explain what they knew or how. But there was no superiority or smugness in the painted Dumbledore's eyes, only a patient kind of wisdom, as if the man already knew what he was going to say and was merely waiting for him to speak.

"I understand you've been having some disturbing visions," the former Headmaster prompted after a moment.

Grateful for the opening, Aidan nodded. "They're just dreams, really. It's just that they keep happening, and I don't know why."

"I have found, and I think you will agree, that a recurring dream usually means something."

"It feels as though it does," Aidan agreed. "It feels as if it means everything. It's hard to explain."

"Why don't you begin by telling me what happens in these dreams?"

"Well, in all of them, there's this—darkness," Aidan began, struggling to find words that would describe the horror and the fear that the mere appearance of that utter darkness in his dreams brought to him. "In some it's a person and in others it's more like an enormous wall of…blackness, like a void, except that it's not empty, or it didn't used to be," he corrected himself. "It used to be full of lights, or stars, only they've all burned out; they've all died, lost their light or their will to burn or something." He looked up at the old man in his portrait on the wall. "Am I making sense?"

The former headmaster nodded. "How do you feel when you see this darkness?" Dumbledore asked.

"Afraid," Aidan admitted. "Terrified. I'm always struggling with it, or running from it, trying to keep it from taking something from me."

"And does it succeed?" inquired Dumbledore, gazing intently at him.

"No. At least, it hasn't yet, but it's come close in some of them, and every time I'm afraid it will actually find a way."

"Do you know what the darkness is?"

"Well, the phoenix said it was the Third Darkness," Aidan replied.

"The phoenix?" Dumbledore asked sharply, leaning forward in his frame.

Aidan nodded. "I think that's what it is, from what I've learned about magical creatures. It's always in my dreams, too. It talks to me, sometimes, and it feels sad when it sees the darkness, as if—as if it's lost a best friend, or family, and they can never come back."

The portrait of Dumbledore stared thoughtfully into the distance.

"Please, do you know what's going on?" Aidan implored the silent old man, suddenly on the verge of tears with no clear understanding of how he got there. "All of this"—he gestured wildly around him—"it's all happened so fast, and I've barely had time to think about any of it. I just want to understand what's happening to me."

The old man turned to look at him with sympathy in his eyes. "As I said, I am only a shadow of what was once a reality," he said, spreading his hands apologetically. "What I know, I will tell you, but I cannot give you all the answers you seek. I simply don't have them."

Aidan nodded again and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'll take anything I can get."

"First, you need to understand that there is a great that we do not know about magic. Why, for instance, does magic work on Earth, but not in space? Why does not everyone have access to it? What makes a person capable of using it? Why does it react to intent, to will? What, exactly, is it?" He looked expectantly at Aidan.

"I don't know," Aidan murmured.

Dumbledore smiled. "Precisely. No one does, not even our most learned minds, and believe me, we have been studying the issue for a long, long time. The second thing you should know is that the same thing can be said for prophecy."

Aidan blinked. "Prophecy? I thought that was all nonsense."

Dumbledore nodded. "Real prophecy is a rare gift, but it does occur. Again, we don't know why or how, only that it does, and when it does, we hope someone is around to hear it. Prophecy is not limited to those with magical ability but seems to be completely separate from it. There have been non-magical prophets, just as there have been magical ones, and the only thing that they have in common is that the things they saw came to pass."

"Then you think…I'm a prophet?" Aidan's mind reeled at the possibility.

The old man nodded once more. "I believe you have the ability, yes, which is why I referred to your dreams as visions."

"But I'm not seeing actual events," Aidan protested. "Just…darkness."

"Indeed. If there's a single unmanageable talent, it's prophecy. It seems to come and go as it pleases, when it pleases, often manifesting itself at odd times and sometimes lying dormant for years, if not decades. However, when it does manifest itself, whatever the prophet sees, from mere symbolism to actual events, unfailingly comes to pass. But"—he held up a finger—"there is a catch. There are some events that no prophet can foresee, and these have been dubbed Darknesses, out of the fact that they are hidden from even those with the Sight.

"Thus far, only one has come and gone, and the rest we must wait on. We know that they will occur, but we do not know when they will occur, or how events will play themselves out afterward—only what _might_ happen. And it is this twist, the unpredictable nature of that which can be predicted, that causes prophecy to be looked at as more of a curse than a gift, especially by those with the ability."

"I don't want to be a prophet," Aidan muttered.

"Understandable," the former headmaster replied. "But we must all come to grips with what makes us who we are; if not sooner, then later."

"Yeah?" asked Aidan sourly, fighting to keep his feelings of frustration and exhaustion in check. It all felt like too much for a single lifetime: to come from a past that no one could understand, to be able to wield a devastating power that no one had ever seen before, to be able to foresee a future that no one could comprehend—it all served to make him that much more of an outsider. He had hoped, he had told himself, convinced himself that with a little work he could fit in, but every time he began to think he was making progress in that direction, the rules changed again. "I choose later. Much, much later. Never."

"That is certainly an option," said Dumbledore gently, "although perhaps not ideal."

"It'd be a lot easier than this," Aidan said fiercely, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes despite his best efforts to hold them back.

"Would it?" Dumbledore asked quietly. "How much effort is it taking for you to hold back your feelings at this moment? Is that a level of effort you feel you can maintain for the remainder of your life?"

Aidan blinked. "I suppose I never thought of that," he admitted.

Dumbledore nodded. "Few do. They see only the struggle before them instead of the victory afterward, and they choose to avoid that struggle, but in so doing, they miss out on the resulting victory as well."

"So what should I do?" Aidan asked, wiping his eyes again. "I don't know what the Third Darkness is or how to stop it."

"Alas, I cannot help you in that respect," said the old man apologetically. "Even if I had that information, it would be based on someone else's vision rather than your own, and, as you and I well know, no two people see the same event in quite the same way; thus, any information I could give you would not necessarily be accurate."

Aidan nodded. "I guess I'll have to figure it out on my own."

"Ah, now there I _can_ help you," said Dumbledore, brightening. "Visions about Darknesses are never limited to one person. This means there is at least one other person out there having similar visions, and, if you can find them, you need not proceed alone."

"But how do I find them? There are billions of people in the world!"

Dumbledore nodded. "But consider: if you are all having visions about the same event, you will eventually find each other simply because you will all be attempting to participate in that event. It is only a matter of time."

"That makes sense," Aidan said, feeling considerably better about the whole thing. It helped to know, at least in a general way, what was going on, even if the specifics were still hidden from him. And it was also a relief to know that, when the time came, he would not be doing it by himself.

"Have I been sufficiently helpful?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Yes," Aidan answered gratefully.

"Excellent. In that case, I believe it is Headmistress McGonagall's turn. Would you be so kind as to let her in?"


	10. Sigils

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.

TEN

The rain continued throughout the next day, absent the thunder and lightning of the night before, but still accompanied by the wind, which gusted mightily, throwing sheets of rain at the windows and roaring over the open flues, causing the flames in the many fireplaces to dance wildly in their hearths. It seemed as though every fireplace in the castle was alive with flames, yet the fires did little to dispel the dampness and cold in areas not immediately in their purview, and thus traversing the empty stone corridors was something of a miserable experience. As it was Saturday, Aidan had little to do to occupy himself but wander the chilly halls or settle himself before the fireplace in the Ravenclaw common room. Ciarán was nowhere to be found, though Aidan searched for him; he could only assume the older boy had found some out-of-the-way spot to read his mysterious book and avoid him.

Aidan pondered this thought as he ambled down the corridor leading toward the library, wondering briefly why it had to be all or nothing with the older boy, why there was no middle ground. But his thoughts were constantly being interrupted by other, more immediate concerns. The previous night, for the first night in nearly a month, Aidan had slept; there had been no dark dreams, no sense of impending doom, no breathless terror—only sleep. Although Aidan was more than glad for the first night of uninterrupted slumber in what felt like ages, he could not help feeling uneasy, as if the absence of signs and portents in his dream was, in itself, a sign of something. He was not altogether reconciled with Dumbledore's explanation of events—he rather thought a genuine prophet should be able to control their ability, not the other way around—but he could not wholly discount it, either. It felt right somehow, inside, as if Dumbledore had one piece of the puzzle that was his life and knew exactly where it would fit. He was quite convinced that there was very little the old man had not known when he was—when he was more than an old portrait hanging from the wall of a dark, forgotten office.

Aidan felt sorry for Headmistress McGonagall; though she tried not to show it, the pain of talking to the shadow of a person she once knew and quite obviously cared for was clearly evident. He wondered briefly what she and the old man had discussed after he left, but soon found himself absorbed with his own problems once again as he stood before the doors to the school library, which were locked until the start of term.

Aidan had never been inside the library; McGonagall had been providing him with the books he needed to pursue his studies, but this had nothing to do with his studies and he doubted whether McGonagall would allow him books of arcane prophecy, even if they related to him; she had been reluctant enough to let him tag along on her visit to Dumbledore. Something Dumbledore had mentioned the previous night stuck with Aidan: the fact that one previous Darkness had already come and gone, which coincided with something the phoenix had mentioned in his dreams. He reasoned that there would be some account of that event, possibly even of the prophecy that foretold it, which might give him some idea of what the second and third entailed and what might be done to prevent them.

"I hope this works," Aidan said to no one in particular, nervously withdrawing his silver-white wand from the back pocket of his jeans and pointing it at the lock. There was a spell for locked doors that he had stumbled across in his Charms research, and, although he knew he was essentially breaking into the library, he had no choice. He had to know.

"_Alohamora!_" he whispered. He felt the usual burning sensation in his right arm as a fiery orange spark leapt from the end of the wand into the keyhole. However, rather than the clicking sound Aidan expected to hear, as of one spring-loaded lock mechanism being disengaged, the keyhole emitted a puff of steam accompanied by a strange burbling noise; the next moment, the glowing orange innards of the lock oozed from the keyhole to trickle down the face of the door, singeing the wood where it made contact and sending a trail of smoke and the smell of scorched lumber into the air. Aidan very nearly dropped his wand and bolted—he was going to be in enough trouble for breaking into the library without also destroying school property—but the door swung open slightly, and, steeling his resolve, Aidan pushed it open all the way and stepped into the dark interior.

The library of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was vast, far larger than Aidan expected. It could easily have contained the libraries of all of his previous schools, with rows upon rows of wooden shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling and as far back into the dimness as he could see. Before him numerous tables, covered with a thin film of dust accumulated over the summer, were arranged in rows; to his left was a long counter, behind which he could make out a closed door that no doubt opened into the office of the school librarian. The smell of old books permeated the air in the room, the odor of worn leather and aged pages reaching Aidan's nose as he cautiously crept toward the first row of shelves, squinting to make out titles embossed on faded leather covers before remembering the only spell his wand did correctly.

"_Lumos!_" he whispered into the darkness and the tip of his wand lit up, casting an eerie yellow-orange glow over his immediate surroundings. It occurred to Aidan then, as he gazed for the first time on the sheer quantity of books contained in the space before him—books with titles such as _Necromancy: Dead On or Dead End?_, _Everyday Enchantments—From Dusting to De-Gnoming and Everything In Between, _and _Reflections of a Modern Vampire_—that he had no idea how to go about his search. In any non-magical library, he would have expected to find a computer, or at the very least a card catalog, but he doubted whether either of those items would be present in a wizarding library, which left him at a loss. The books did not even seem to be in order; they were not arranged in any fashion that Aidan could fathom, and as he stood, staring in consternation at books whose subjects ranged from the mundane to the outrageous, he could not help but wonder how anyone could find anything in a library such as this. It felt as though he could spend days wandering the aisles, memorizing titles, and still never know the full contents of the library. Suddenly, his self-appointed task seemed daunting.

With a resigned sigh, Aidan pulled the largest book he could find from the shelf and hefted it over to the nearest table. _Maybe I'll get lucky,_ he thought, although he did not have high hopes. The title of the chosen book had faded so as to be completely unreadable; carefully, for the tome looked, felt, and smelled ancient, Aidan opened it to the title page, holding his wand close to the discolored paper so that he could read the washed-out words, which he vaguely recognized as Latin: "Tempus Fugit." A quick review of the rest of the book confirmed that it was, indeed, written entirely in Latin, and he quickly discarded it, returning to the shelves in search of another interesting-looking volume.

As the pile of large and ancient books on the table grew, Aidan began to despair of ever finding an answer to his question. He did not know how long he had been searching without success, only that it felt like an eternity; the darkness of the library remained uniform, punctuated only by the light of his wand. As he approached the end of the first row, he had about decided to give up his search when he discovered a length of rope stretching between the shelf and the wall at waist height. A sign hanging from the rope read:

RESTRICTED

No Admittance Except By

Special Permission

Curious, Aidan peered into the gloom, raising his wand high above his head in an attempt to see what sorts of books were kept in a section of the library that was apparently off-limits while term was in session. At the same time, he felt a thrill of certainty; the answer he was looking for regarding the First Darkness _had_ to be somewhere behind the rope. His determination renewed, Aidan ducked underneath the rope.

The change was startling. Whereas the books outside of the restricted area exuded a kind of old, musty sense of disuse, here the atmosphere was a great deal more sinister, darker somehow. The light of his wand seemed diminished, its efforts at driving back the darkness more feeble, so that the shadows loomed above him and around him, pressing in on his little sphere of light as if the darkness was alive and malevolent in its intent. He thought he heard whispers in the shadows, and once or twice his eye caught movement, or thought it did, as he fearfully passed his wand's silvery light over the shelves.

_It's my imagination_, Aidan told himself. _Books are books; they're not alive_. Still, he could not quite shake the feeling that he was being watched, and it took him a moment to muster up the courage to reach out and brush one of the leather-bound volumes, which felt rough and cold to the touch. The words written on the spine had been written in a spidery script using an alphabet that Aidan had never seen. With some trepidation, he set the book on the dusty floor and crouched over it, turning to the title page while keeping his wand held high, driving the darkness as far away as possible. The script on the title page was no more legible than that on the book's spine, but he did not long get a chance to look at them as the pages ruffled of their own accord, causing Aidan to jump as they flipped open to a page on which was displayed a picture that caused him to scream.

It was only by clapping his free hand over his mouth at the last second that he was able to muffle the sound as he stared in horror at a face that was not—could not have ever been—human, and yet it was, it was, he knew it was, and it was made all the more hideous by that realization. Scarlet red eyes stared back at him, bored into his soul; scarlet red eyes on a chalk-white face, the face of a dead man, more serpentine than human, with slits for nostrils and nothing but ill intent in its expression. Quickly, Aidan slammed the book shut and stared at the cover in terror, afraid to touch it lest it show him something even worse.

Trembling, breathing heavily, it took Aidan a moment to realize that he could now read the title of the book; where before he had seen nothing but an incomprehensible, sinister-looking scrawl, he now clearly saw the words:

Sigils

The Sight and True Magic

By Alecto Phyton

_It's a book about prophecy,_ Aidan realized as his initial fright passed. _But what are the Dark Arts?_ With great care, as his curiosity overcame his initial fright, he opened the book again, keeping his free hand firmly pressed against the pages to prevent them from moving on their own. Every page was now legible and filled with text; Aidan paged to the table of contents and quickly skimmed the entries, looking for something promising. His eye fell on one, "Blinding the Sight," and, with mounting excitement, Aidan flipped to the appropriate page, which read:

_IT MAY SURPRISE proponents of Prophecy to realize that, for all of a Prophet's power to foresee events that may not occur for centuries, even millennia, a Prophet may very easily be fooled, even prevented from seeing anything meaningful at all. This is due to the nature of the Sight, which is dependent upon the malleable perceptions of the Seer, and it is by this means that external influences may gain some measure of control over Prophecy, so as to bend it to their own purposes._

_External influcences?_ Aidan did not like the sound of that; it implied that someone else might be able to control what he saw or could not see, at least to some extent. The idea did not sit well with him; he was used to the idea of prophets being all-seeing. Of course, his talk with Dumbledore should have already disabused him of that notion. Shaking his head, he turned his attention once again to the page.

_One skilled in True Magic will already be aware of the many incantations available for modifying the perceptions and memories of a target; these are used by those professing a taste for so-called 'White Magic' as a means for controlling those lesser individuals with no magical power at all. In much the same way, a True Wizard can modify the perceptions of those with the Sight to suit their purposes; in fact, if done correctly, this modification should, in theory, persist in those descendants of the target who also have the Sight, thus ensuring that the event the True Wizard wishes to have masked remains so. The difficulties that arise are, of course, the fact that an event may be seen by several different Prophets and the fact that the True Wizard must, in some way, gain knowledge of the event in question. Therefore, it is ideal to keep one or more Sight-endowed individuals in servitude to the True Wizard so that the necessary knowledge can be obtained and the requisite perception-modifying charms applied._

Aidan stared, aghast, at the page, which was suggesting nothing less than keeping someone like him, someone with prophetic ability, as a slave in order to gain knowledge of the future and change it to suit the whims of the 'True Wizard'.

_What is a book like this doing in a school?_ he thought disgustedly, throwing the book down. It slid along the stone floor and came to rest a few feet away, so that half of it was outside the circle of light cast by his wand. Once more, the pages ruffled themselves, but instead of halting on the page with the hideous visage, they opened onto a moving picture of a dark, wet cobblestone street. Lightning flashed on the page, and, to Aidan's surprise, a crash of thunder sounded, not from the book, but from outside the castle.

Frowning, Aidan warily retrieved the book. On the page before him, rain was falling steadily; he could almost hear it pattering against the stones. There were buildings in the scene, built in the old style, so that at first Aidan thought he was watching a depiction of something that had occurred in the past. However, when he saw a young man step out from one of the buildings wearing jeans and tennis shoes, he realized that the scene unfolding before his eyes was more recent; and when another flash of lighting lit up the page, accompanied once more by the sound of thunder from outside the castle, he realized that it was happening _now_.

_How is that possible?_ Aidan wondered, leaning in closer to the page. The book looked as ancient as any of the others he had pulled from the shelves, and so unless it was, itself, prophetic—but it was only a book! Aidan leaned closer, and suddenly felt the floor beneath him lurch. With a startled cry, he threw out his hands, expecting to hit the stone floor face first, but instead he found himself falling, impossibly, into the book, and he landed on his feet some distance behind the young man he had seen earlier. Astonished, he looked up, expecting to see the hole through which he had fallen…

…and discovered he could not. His viewpoint did not change, though he could feel the sensation of his body beneath him, the chill night air numbing his fingers, he had no control over them. Instead, he remained focused on the young man, who looked as though he was trying to decide whether or no to venture away from the protecting of the overhanging eave, into the wet, cold night. It was as if he was sharing his body with someone else—no, as if someone else was sharing their body with him. He was a passenger, an onlooker, and the feeling of not being in control was disconcerting.

He had little time to worry about this, though, as the young man finally seemed to arrive at a decision and hurried out into the rainy night, away from Aidan. Carefully, he followed after the young man, staying far enough behind so as to remain unnoticed as his target dashed from one building to the next in an attempt to remain as dry as possible. Slowly, Aidan realized he was gaining on his quarry and the brought with it the thrill of anticipation. The fun was in stealing up to the young man unnoticed, in tapping him on the shoulder and seeing the look of fear and alarm on his face as he turned around to see Aidan standing before him.

"Do I know you?" asked the young man uncertainly, squinting at Aidan as droplets of rain ran down his face.

Aidan made no reply, grasping his wand tightly in his hand—_No!_ came a thought from somewhere—and leveled it at the boy.

"What're you doing?" his victim asked, panic in his voice as he fumbled for his own wand.

"Good-bye, Justin," said a voice that was not Aidan's own, though it seemed to come from his mouth. In the same instant that the light of recognition and terror dawned in the young man's eyes, the voice shouted, "_Rendan fortes!_"

A blinding white light erupted from the tip of the wand, accompanied by a deafening roaring sound like a rushing wind, and the boy crumpled to the ground. Somewhere, far away, someone cried out in horror as lighting flashed overhead, followed by a loud thunderclap—

--and Aidan found himself once more in the library, clutching the book tightly, panting heavily, and staring into the eyes of Argus Filch.

"On your feet!" the Hogwarts caretaker snapped.

Shakily, Aidan got to his feet. He felt sick to his stomach, his heart was pounding heavily in his head, and he wobbled unsteadily for a moment or two on his feet while Filch glared at him. _I killed him, I killed him, I killed him,_ was all he could think, _I don't know how but I was there, I killed him!_

"Thought you'd nip into the library and have a look at the restricted section, did you? Thought no one would find you?"

Aidan made no reply; his mind was still reeling from the scene he had just been a party to. _I killed him…_

Filch jerked his head toward the front of the library. "A right little criminal you are, breaking and entering, destroying school property, making a racket at all hours of the night." He grabbed Aidan roughly by the arm. "If it were up to me, you'd hang from your toenails in the dungeons before they sent you home," he hissed. "As it is, you'll never set foot in the castle again."

That last statement finally brought Aidan to his senses. "I have to see the Headmistress," he told the caretaker, pulling his arm out of the old man's grasp. _Or Dumbledore. I have to know what's going on, if I killed him. I couldn't have, I wasn't really there…was I? There might still be time, if I can just find him, find out where he is, get to him. Maybe…I have to try._ He attempted to step forward, but found his arm once more in the caretaker's grasp.

"You'll see her when I'm done with you!" Filch snarled.

"Someone's been attacked!" Aidan exploded angrily, trying to wrest his arm from the old man's grip, which, despite his age, was still powerful enough to be painful.

"Read that in a book, did you?" Filch sneered.

"No, I saw it!" Aidan said. "I was—it was like I was there!"

"A likely story."

"Let me go! I have to see the Headmistress!" Aidan shouted, struggling with the old man. Filch cried out in astonishment as Aidan recognized the sensation of fire surging in his arm, and the next instant the caretaker was hopping about in pain and blowing on his singed hand; seizing his opportunity, Aidan bolted for the library doors and flew out into the dim corridor. It was only then that Aidan realized how much time had been spent in the library: the torches in their brackets had all been lit, and darkness was all that was visible through the windows. He did not stop to think, but pounded down the stone corridor toward the stairs, clambering up as fast as he dared, stumbling once or twice and nearly causing himself a nasty fall. Lightning flashed in the windows as he passed them by, followed quickly by the ominous rumble of thunder overhead, all of which served to heighten Aidan's anxiety. He did not even know what his destination was until he arrived at the foot of Ravenclaw tower, gasping for breath.

_I don't even know where he is_, Aidan thought, breathing heavily and staring at the winding staircase that led up to the Ravenclaw common room while the vision of the young man crumpling to the rain-slicked street played itself over and over in his mind. _How will I find him? I'll never get there in time!_ Part of him, the irrational part, wanted to fight the realization, but his rational mind would not allow it; he knew it was true. There was no way for him to know where the events of his vision had taken place, and the boy was dead, dead, and he had _seen_ it, he had _felt_ it, he had _done_ it…!

_No._ He shook his head, swallowing hard, willing it to be true. _It wasn't_ me_, it was someone else._

_Even so,_ said a nasty voice in his mind, _you were there. You should have stopped it._

_I couldn't!_ Aidan thought fiercely at it. _I wasn't in control!_ But he could not shake the feeling that perhaps if he had tried harder, he might have been able to exert some control, change events. Why else would he have seen it? What would be the point of showing it to him if there was nothing he could do about it?

_There _has _to be a reason_. He wracked his brain, trying to recall the sensation of the vision, how it felt to be there, powerless to change or stop the events as they played out, to be unable even to look away. Was there something there, some clue, some nuance that he ought to have caught, that might have helped him change the outcome, that might have helped him to save the boy? Nothing came to mind, despite his efforts, and he was forced to concede, with a kind of heavy sorrow, that the outcome was inevitable. Even so, his frustration remained. Wearily, he sank down onto the stone steps as he realized how much trouble he was in, having visions he didn't understand, breaking into the school library, destroying school property, entering the restricted section without permission, and, worst of all, injuring a staff member.

_I'll be expelled for sure,_ he thought miserably. He watched morosely as a brief flash of lightning illuminated the stone wall opposite the staircase and imagined himself in the pouring rain on a night such as this, huddled somewhere damp and uncomfortable, homeless. Worse still would be the realization that he would have had the opportunity to finally fit in somewhere, only to lose it. He did not know how McGonagall would react to his misadventures—she might only give him detention—but, no matter what, the worst thing she could do would be to send him back to the Sears house.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought him out of his reverie. At first, he was afraid it was Filch or McGonagall coming for him, until he realized the footsteps had stopped behind him. Twisting around, he looked up to see a familiar face, albeit a very damp one, regarding him cautiously.

"All right?" Ciarán asked.

Aidan nodded, turning away. The older boy shuffled slightly, as if considering something, then finally sat down next to him, water dripping from his face.

"Where've you been?" Aidan asked, partly to have something to say and partly because he found it odd that Ciarán should be coming in from outside via the Ravenclaw common room.

"Hogsmeade," the older boy said offhandedly, running one hand through his damp hair.

"Where?"

"Hogsmeade," Ciarán repeated. "It's the only all-wizarding village in Britain."

"Really?" Aidan asked, momentarily forgetting his worry. "I'd like to see that."

Ciarán nodded. "It looks like something out of the history books: eighteenth-century architecture, with inns and little shops. I'd almost expect to see carriages in the streets. Third Years and above are allowed to go, with permission from their parents."

"Even at night?"

"Er, not exactly," Ciarán murmured, shifting uncomfortably. "I was supposed to be back by sundown."

"Well, at least I wasn't the only one breaking the rules tonight," Aidan remarked, inexplicably feeling somewhat heartened.

"Why?" Ciarán asked with a disbelieving grin, as if he couldn't envision Aidan as a rule-breaker. "What've you been up to?"

"I…broke into the library."

The older boy snorted. "The library?"

"I had to find something out," Aidan retorted defensively.

"You could have asked McGonagall," the older boy pointed out.

"Why? Is that where you get your empty books?"

Ciarán frowned. "Empty books?"

"You left it behind last night," Aidan said, nodding in the direction of the common room. "There's nothing written in it."

"You have to ask it a question first," Ciarán told him.

"Oh," said Aidan, suddenly feeling foolish. "I—I didn't think of that."

"Right, and you should have because Muggle books all work that way, right?"

"Well…" Aidan grudgingly allowed. They lapsed into silence for a moment, Aidan marveling at how easy their banter had been, as if the month of avoiding each other had not happened; as if they were best friends. Quite suddenly Aidan realized how important it was for him to express this to the older boy, to make Ciarán understand that even if he didn't want anything else, he wanted to be friends with him.

"That was nice," Ciarán said quietly, as if reading Aidan's thoughts.

Aidan nodded silently.

Ciarán ran one hand nervously through his dark hair. "I—well I know I've been a git—but…but if you still want to be friends—"

"Yes," Aidan replied so quickly it startled both of them.

"Okay," the older boy said quietly, relief evident in his voice.

"Okay," Aidan echoed. They slipped into silence again, neither one quite willing to look at the other. Finally, Aidan cleared his throat. "So, tell me more about Hogsmeade," he said, hoping to break up the awkward moment.

Ciarán shrugged. "It's all right, if you like the 'quaint country village' stereotype: wood-framed houses and cobblestone streets, that sort of thing."

Aidan looked up sharply at the older boy, memories of his previous vision resurfacing. "Hogsmeade has cobblestone streets?"

Ciarán nodded. "It didn't used to; the wizards living there fight change with tooth and nail. But they finally decided, I think, that it was easier to pave the streets than clean up all of the mud, especially in weather like tonight's."

_In Hogsmeade is the body of a boy lying in the rain-soaked street. He might be dead, he might not be, but I have to find him._

"How do you get there?" Aidan demanded, standing up.

The older boy looked up at him curiously. "Why?"

"I don't have time to explain," Aidan said, glancing upstairs. "Did you come in through the fireplace?"

"Yes," Ciarán replied. "Wait!" he called, clambering to his feet as Aidan charged past him up the stairs. "Where are you going? Aidan!"

"Someone was attacked there," Aidan called back, "tonight!"

"What? How do you know?" Ciarán asked, catching up to him.

"I saw it," Aidan replied shortly. "Tisiphone," he said to the stone gargoyle at the top of the stairs.

"I remember when students actually slept at night," the occamy muttered, moving to one side.

"I don't understand. How did you see it?" Ciarán inquired as they entered the common room.

"It's complicated," Aidan said, striding over to the fireplace, which was ablaze and taking the jar of Floo powder from its place on the mantle. Although no more portal guardians had failed since the occamy, the powder had not yet been removed from the common rooms; Aidan paused momentarily, briefly considering the consequences of using the Floo powder to leave the grounds, an act which had been expressly forbidden by Professor Aethera at the end of term.

"You're not actually thinking of going now?" Ciarán asked disbelievingly, looking from the jar of powder to Aidan's face.

"I have to," Aidan replied, settling on his choice.

"Well, then I'm coming with you," the older boy said.

"No," said Aidan, removing the lid from the jar. "I don't want you to get into trouble."

"I'm already in trouble," Ciarán retorted. "I may as well be in trouble for something big as something little." He sighed and pointed at the dancing flames behind Aidan. "Toss it in and say 'Hogsmeade.'"

Aidan nodded, secretly grateful to the older boy, and turned toward the fireplace. Taking a handful of the gritty powder, he threw it into the flames, which flared and turned green, bathing the common room in an eerie emerald glow.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Ciarán muttered as he and Aidan stepped into the flames.

"No," Aidan admitted, "I don't." Before Ciarán could reply, he called out, "Hogsmeade!" and with a roaring sound, the flames engulfed them.


	11. Alone

Phoenix Song

WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!

LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time, provided their transit papers are in order.

ELEVEN

The entire world was ablaze with fire and light as the wind howled around them, whipping the emerald flames into a frenzy, so that they licked hungrily at the edges of Aidan's clothing, but the magic inherent in the Floo powder restrained them, prevented the fire from burning through, though it did little for the smell of smoke and the gritty feel of ash against his skin. Moments later, Aidan felt himself pitch forward, and he and Ciarán landed sprawling on a stone hearth which was blissfully cool to the touch. The fire that had carried them flared briefly behind them, casting pale green light over their surroundings before sinking quickly into nothingness, leaving behind only a few glowing embers. Aidan blinked away the afterimage of the room as he stood up shakily, unconsciously brushing off the soot which clung to his skin and clothing.

"Where are we?" he croaked hoarsely, turning to Ciarán, who was peering intently at the ceiling overhead.

"Ssh!" he said, placing a finger to lips while cocking his head to one side, as if listening for something. After a moment, apparently satisfied, he turned to Aidan and replied, "We're in a pub called the Three Broomsticks."

"We made it, then?" Aidan inquired, squinting into the darkness. He could just make out the faint forms of circular wooden tables in the subdued lighting, which was provided by a solitary flickering candle mounted on the far wall above a wooden door.

Ciarán nodded. "This is Hogsmeade, or at least part of it. Where do we go from here?" he asked, gazing expectantly at Aidan.

"Outside," the younger boy answered, recalling the image of a body lying in a rain-soaked street.

"Right," Ciarán said, stepping forward. "Quietly," he admonished as the two boys carefully threaded their way through the tables toward the entrance. With great care, the older boy slid back the lock and opened the door, wincing slightly as it squeaked on its hinges. "She needs to oil those," he muttered, casting a worried glance at the ceiling overhead.

On the other side of the door, the rain fell steadily, pattering against the paving stones and dripping from the eaves. The damp, chill night air washed over Aidan as he stepped outside, followed by Ciarán, who quietly closed the door behind them. The two boys stood for a moment in the darkness, which was broken only by the dim glow of several lanterns hanging from iron poles which were placed at intervals along the street. Pools of water had formed along the sides of the road, reflecting the flickering lights from their black depths, and the sight filled Aidan with a sense of dread, for it reminded him of his darker dreams. He forced himself to look away from the gleaming pools at Ciarán, who was staring out at the falling rain with a thoughtful expression. Feeling Aidan's gaze, the older boy turned to face him, doubt clouding his expression.

"You're sure about this?"

Aidan nodded wordlessly, hugging himself tightly to keep warm as the wind picked up, scattering raindrops at both of them in spite of their relative protection beneath the overhanging roof. _I should have brought a coat,_ Aidan thought, trying not to shiver, but there had been no time; the sense of urgency from his vision had seized him and compelled him to get here as quickly as possible. And although it had abated somewhat in the time since then, a faint echo remained, driving him to venture out into the wind and water with nothing more than the flimsy fabric of his shirt as protection.

"Here," Ciarán murmured as if reading his thoughts, shrugging out of his coat and holding it out to the younger boy. "Put this on."

Aidan shook his head. "What about you?"

"I've got a sweater. Besides, it's no good trying to save a life if you freeze to death first."

"Thank you," Aidan said, reluctantly taking the older boy's coat. It was relatively damp from whatever Ciarán had been doing in Hogsmeade before he returned to the castle, but it was warm, and what was more, it carried the faintest scent of the older boy, which, to Aidan's surprise, was actually rather pleasant. He shook his head to derail that particular train of thought before it careened out of control and stared down at the row of shops that lined the street, stretching into darkness. "Right, let's go." Together the two boys stepped out into the rain.

It quickly became evident to Aidan how immense his task was, even in a village as small as Hogsmeade appeared to be. Without knowing the exact location of the young man from his vision, he and Ciarán were forced to investigate every cross-street and alley, sometimes taking refuge for a moment underneath the overhanging eaves of one shop or another, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together while their breath steamed before them and the wind blew cold water into their faces. It felt as though an eternity had passed before they finally reached the end of what was the main thoroughfare through Hogsmeade, arriving at last at the final intersection.

_Could I have been mistaken?_ Aidan wondered, staring out at the intersection with chattering teeth while behind him Ciarán shivered audibly. Both of them were completely soaked and the water against their skin leached away a little more warmth every time the wind picked up. Aidan didn't understand how all of their efforts had failed to turn up the victim, unless—and this was a possibility he desperately wanted to discount—the vision had not been real. In his beleaguered state, it took him a moment to recognize the form lying prone in a pool of water across the way; the figure of a young man lying on his back in the rain. With a startled cry, Aidan dashed out into the street, momentarily unaware of the cold or the falling rain or the feel of the water soaking through his pants as he fell to his knees next to the young man, desperately searching for signs of life. He placed one finger against the base of the victim's neck and thought he felt a pulse, but his own heart was pounding so loud and so insistently that he could not tell.

"He's still warm," Aidan said to Ciarán as the older boy splashed over to him. "Does that mean anything?"

"I don't know," Ciarán replied, kneeling down next to Aidan, a look of concern on his face.

"He has to be alive," Aidan said firmly. "We need to get him out of the rain."

"Are you sure it's safe to move him?" Ciarán asked dubiously.

"No," Aidan answered swiftly, "but we _know_ he won't survive in the rain. Help me pick him up." Together, the two boys managed to carry the young man over to the relative dryness of the nearest overhanging eave, which belonged to a shop with a squeaky sign that proclaimed, "Brooms Rebristled". Carefully, they propped their charge against the side of the building, and Aidan removed the coat Ciarán had lent him, draping it over the young man before standing up. "One of us needs to go for help."

"I'll go," Ciarán said.

Aidan nodded wordlessly, suddenly overcome with gratitude toward the older boy. "Thank you," he finally managed to say.

"I'll be back soon," Ciarán promised. "Try to stay warm." With a quick smile of reassurance, he ducked back out into the rain. Aidan watched him disappear into the darkness before sighing and turning back to the young man, the complete stranger whose life he was attempting to save. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his soggy shoes, of the chill which was once again creeping up on him, and it occurred to him how ludicrous he felt playing the hero; it was not a role in which he had ever expected to find himself, and it was disconcerting to think how ill-equipped he was to fulfill it. _A real hero would've thought to bring his wand,_ he said to himself, sinking down onto the cold pavement next to the young man, _or at least a coat._ As Ciarán had said, it would do little good to save a life if he froze to death in the process.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he waited for the older boy to return, as if it, too, was having difficulties overcoming the cold. Every exposed inch of skin felt numb to the point of painfulness, especially when the wind blew, scattering raindrops like icy needles before it. He longed for the simple heat of the fireplace in the Ravenclaw common room, which he had always taken for granted, for the security and comfort of his bed, with its warm covers, or the feel of Ciarán's jacket, warmed by contact with the older boy's body. The thought of the older boy's body pressed against his own—warm, inviting, solid, reassuring—drove him to distraction and dredged up a welter of uncomfortable and strange feelings from deep inside of him, so that Aidan had to squeeze his eyes shut and grit his teeth to blot them from his mind's eye.

_What is so wrong with admitting that I like him?_ he asked himself.

_Morgan…_

_He's _not _Morgan._

_No, but…I'm afraid anyway._

He sighed heavily, exhaling a large cloud of vapor which hung motionless in the air for a moment before slowly dispelling. He was afraid. _Another reason I'm not suited to play the hero_, he told himself, turning to consider the young man whose life he was attempting to save. It was Aidan's first opportunity to get a real look at the boy, and Aidan realized with a start that he recognized the sandy-haired young man as one of the members of Blair Tiernan's group.

"Nash," he breathed, feeling a chill run through him. "So Justin's your first name, is it?" He had not known the older boy's full name when he had been ambushed in the corridors by the trio consisting of Nock, Nash, and Tiernan earlier in the summer, but he well remembered the boy's malevolent laughter at his expense, the feel of Nock's inexorable grip on his shoulder and look of contempt on Tiernan's face as he drove the wind out of Aidan with one swift blow. Part of Aidan's mind told him he should be angry with Nash, and even went to far as to suggest abandoning the young man to his fate, but that part was overridden by a more pressing concern: someone had attacked a student. Whereas before Aidan had experienced the sense of urgency that came with helplessly looking on as another person was attacked, that feeling was now greatly intensified by the knowledge that the victim was someone he _knew_, however remotely.

"Never thought you'd be on the receiving end, did you?" Aidan murmured, kneeling down to stare at the pale figure, the onetime accomplice of his assailant, his enemy. Some part of his mind reasoned that that he should be exulting over the young man's misfortune, but he could not dredge up anything but sympathy for the boy, with his damp, limp hair plastered to his forehead, his shallow, raspy breathing, his thin, drawn expression. In the pale yellow light of the street lamps, he looked extremely vulnerable.

"Why you?" Aidan asked the unconscious young man, but there was, of course, no response. He sighed and turned away, his head full of questions and the ever-present reminders from his body that it was wet, cold, and uncomfortable.

_Hurry up!_ Aidan urged Ciarán silently, peering hard into the wind and rain, willing the older boy's familiar form to appear. He had no idea how much time had passed since they found Justin, but he knew that every minute lost would make it that much more difficult to revive the boy in the end. Aidan hugged himself for warmth and turned his attention back to the questions seething in his mind. It occurred to him that "Why?" was not the most important question; "Who?" was. Who would skulk about the streets at night attacking students? Aidan had to admit that he did not know enough of the wizarding world to even hazard a guess at this question. Did wizards get mugged? It seemed strange to think that, with all of the magical powers at a person's disposal, with capabilities far transcending those of the average human being, they would still resort to something as base as robbery. Yet, he already had experience with the fact that a wizard could be a bully, just like a regular person—was it so hard to believe that a wizard was capable of worse things? But there was no evidence that anything had been taken from Justin, or that his attacker had wanted to do anything more than harm him. In fact, Aidan realized with mounting urgency, that was exactly what it had been: an attack purely for its own sake, and by someone who knew the victim. And that realization led to a horrifying conclusion: _Justin had been attacked by another student_.

_It can't be_. Aidan's mind reeled from the realization, his heart pounding out a staccato rhythm as its full import struck home. It was terrible enough to read about such things happening in the non-magical world—here, with the powers at their disposal, what atrocities one person could commit against another were magnified at least a hundred times over, so as to render the very thought of violence against another human being unthinkable, unimaginable. Yet it had happened, hadn't it? And Justin had suspected his aggressor, too—he asked, right before the attack, whether they knew each other. A chill ran up and down Aidan's spine and the street corner suddenly seemed extremely unsafe. The yellow glow of the street lamps had become harsh, glaring, and angry, and the utter darkness overhead and all around felt thick and menacing and filled Aidan with dread. The howling wind screeched at him and threw drops of rain like needles at every inch of exposed skin, so that Aidan was shivering with cold and with fright and wanted nothing more than to be back in the Ravenclaw common room, safe, warm, and dry. But he could not, would not leave his charge.

_Where are you?_ Aidan demanded silently of Ciarán. Though he peered long and hard into the ominous darkness for any sign of the older boy or any other living person, no help was forthcoming. It now was imperative that Justin be taken away from here as expediently as possible, to someplace warm and safe—and Aidan had to admit that this was as much for Justin as it was for him—where he could recover and name his assailant. Even as Aidan stared expectantly down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone to come to his aid, he was considering how he would manage to carry the unconscious young man back to the Three Broomsticks. His wand, lying as it was in the restricted section of the school library—or worse, confiscated by Filch—was of no use to him. Which left other, wholly non-magical means.

Although Nash was thin, he was taller than Aidan and it quickly became evident that Aidan would not be able to carry the older boy. About the best he could do was to drag Justin by his arms as gently as possible, but even in this he was only partially successful, collapsing after only a few minutes of effort underneath the eaves of the closest shop. Panting, he plumbed the shadows at the other end of the street once more, desperately seeking some sign of life, but in vain. There was not another soul about, and why should there be, in the middle of a night such as this one, when a person could be bundled up, warm and safe in bed, alone or resting against the sleeping form of another—Ciarán's coat, which smelled so much like the older boy might well have been Ciarán, pressed up against him, arms wrapped languidly around him…

Justin moaned softly, breaking Aidan from his reverie, a fact for which he was grateful. The chill was getting to him—yes, that was it. With deliberate effort, he turned his attention to the older boy who was trembling, eyes closed, brow furrowed in discomfort.

"You awake?" Aidan asked in a hushed tone. Justin did not reply, but his arms and legs continued to tremble. _Hypothermia_. He felt a surge of desperation—why hadn't Ciarán returned with help?—and hauled himself to his feet again, a bit unsteadily. _The cold's_ _getting to me, too_. He shook his head to clear it and took hold of Justin's arms again. Grunting with effort, he managed to pull the boy across the wet pavement and underneath the overhang of the next closest shop. _At this rate,_ Aidan thought wearily, breathing heavily, _we'll never make it._ It was hopeless. _If only I had thought to bring my wand,_ he berated himself._ What kind of wizard goes out to rescue someone without their wand?_ He let out an explosive breath, running one hand through his damp hair while wracking his brain for something, anything, any idea. But he could not see any way to quickly help Justin and himself that did not involve magic. And he couldn't do magic without a wand.

…Could he?

As desperate minds in dire straits will sometimes do, Aidan's mind seized upon an impossibility. Although technically possible, in that the most advanced wizards and witches could perform spells without the aid of a wand, Aidan had always considered it an impossibility simply because he knew he was not such a wizard, nor did he expect to be one any time soon, if at all. Even McGonagall used her wand, and she was the most highly-developed witch he knew.

"Your wand is your most important tool," she told him at the beginning of his summer lessons, "without which you would find yourself incapable of performing even the most rudimentary incantation. Only a well-disciplined and highly organized mind will ever progress beyond the need for one, and even then, the amount of effort required to effect the simplest of spells is considerable, so that use of the wand becomes preferable. The wise witch or wizard never goes anywhere without it."

_I didn't pay very much attention to that, did I?_ Aidan thought sourly. Still, he could not shake the idea that perhaps, if he concentrated hard enough, he might be able to do it. After all, he had managed to defend himself from Morgan, what seemed like an eternity ago, and he had not needed a wand for that. _No, but my life was in danger then._ As the wind rose howling around him, he was forced to concede that his life might very well be in danger again, although in a different way than before. _And not just mine_, he thought, glancing at Justin's shivering form. _Whatever I'm doing, I'd better be quick about it._

_Where do I start?_ The wind was whistling past him, flinging icy droplets of rain, like shards of glass, to sear his frozen skin, as if the environment was doing everything possible to distract him in the moment when he needed his focus the most. Ciarán's coat was suddenly no longer adequate to keep out the chill, and Aidan stood shivering in the icy wind, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, gritting his teeth and concentrating with all his might on one thing: the Three Broomsticks. He might have chosen Hogwarts, except that the castle was farther away, and he wasn't certain if his attempt, made in desperation, would succeed—but if it was going to, it would help to avoid overtaxing himself. He tried to summon the image of the room as he had left it: the wooden tables, the stone fireplace against one wall, the single flickering candle above the door, the essence of the place as he had felt it. It was difficult, as he had not been paying much attention to his surroundings, diverted by the urgency of his mission, but he poured everything he could muster into reconstructing the image as best he could until he had it fixed in his mind.

The howling wind died down, as if growing distant—_Yes,_ Aidan thought, urging that realization onward, _take us there, go there, both of us, now, hurry!_ Some part of his mind become aware of sweat or rain or both trickling down his face, of a sudden warmth all around him, like a ring of fire that had sprung up around both of them, Justin and himself, and was pressing in on them, on the space they occupied, whirling around them like a pillar of fire, as if they were caught in the effects of Floo powder, only the flames weren't green, they were orange and yellow and red and blinding white, the color of starfire, of the raging inferno that consumes and provides heat and light and life at the same time. Gasping, Aidan opened his eyes and saw that the fire was real, that it surged and roared all around them, but not with ash and smoke nor even with overwhelming heat. The flames danced and flickered warmly, like friendly spirits—_No, birds,_ Aidan dazedly corrected himself—beckoning him upward and onward with soft singing and gentle warmth, and then Aidan felt himself falling, plunging, with the sudden lurching sensation of freefall in the pit of his stomach, but in slow motion, like a dream in which you fall and fall and then you wake up. He cried out, threw out his hands to stop his descent and felt the wooden floor of the Three Broomsticks rise up to meet him.

_I did it!_ he thought happily, his mind awash in the weary elation of extended effort. Panting, he tried to sit up, but the world would not remain still for him, and he collapsed back to the floor, relishing the firmness and the warmth, frowning slightly at the bright light which seemed to pervade the place before the darkness he expected descended upon him.


	12. Revelations

Phoenix Song

**ABANDON HOPE, ALL WHO ENTER HERE:** This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your house, block, suburb, city (or township), state (or province), country, league of countries, planet, federation, galaxy, or universe, or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse or otherwise irritate and/or annoy you, go read the story about the Unoffensive, Politically-Correct Fluffy Bunnies instead of this one. Furthermore, be aware that I do not own the Harry Potter characters or their destinies, nor do I claim to; my power is limited to my own characters. Should any of J. K. Rowling's characters desire to return to her universe, they are free to do so at any time, provided their transit paperwork is in order.

**Author's Note:** By the by, this chapter involves some events of a sexual nature. If you've tolerated the story up to this point and this is the last straw, take comfort in the fact that you were warned at the outset and did not have to get to the gory details before realizing how the author tricked you! Bwahahahahaiamsoevilyesyeshahahahahahaokaythatsenoughwhatsfordinner? :-P Oh, and **katkitten**? Call _me_ a son of a camel, will you? Ha! Two chapters in two days! How do you like them updates? XD

TWELVE

The darkness did not last long. He fell through it like a rock plummeting into the abyss, as if the darkness was a thing made of liquid, like the depths of the ocean but without end. Down and down he plunged, until, quite suddenly, he broke through the surface of the darkness into blinding whiteness. The pain in his head was excruciating, like his skull was splitting open, and the whiteness all around him flared brighter with each pulse of his heart, brighter than the sun, brighter than a hundred suns. In the distance, he felt someone catch him as he fell, and then he was weightless, flying, and the firebird was there, just as he remembered it, soaring next to him, softly singing notes that were mournful and deep and unearthly, but captivating and beautiful and soul-wrenching at the same time, echoing all around him, resounding from the infinite light.

_What's happening to me?_ he asked it. _I've gone mad…_

_The light burns brightest where darkness is strongest._

Aidan laughed at the fiery bird, glowing orange and yellow and starfire and colors that had yet to be discovered and named. _I don't know what you mean and it doesn't matter because I'm mad!_

_You are not mad._

_Yes, I am, but not crazy. Angry. Wouldn't you be, if I kept knocking you unconscious so that I could talk to you in riddles? My life is not normal anymore, thanks to you! Wizardry, magic, prophecy?_ He laughed incredulously. _Magic I could take, but now I get to have visions I don't understand of events I can't stop or change, and all you can do is talk nonsense!_ He hadn't realized the depth of his anger and frustration, nor his utter exhaustion, which even now he felt, and it occurred to him that a great deal of that was because he was being placed into a situation he had been in before, though the circumstances were slightly different now; nevertheless, here he was again, thanks to the wonderful power of prophecy: the helpless onlooker, powerless to alter the course of events as it unfolded, even as he had been night after untold night when Morgan came to his bed and raped him.

The firebird regarded him solemnly. _In the end, you changed everything,_ it pointed out.

_It doesn't matter. It never should have happened. _He was sobbing now, uncontrollably, and he didn't know whether the firebird meant Morgan or the fact that he was able to save Justin, and it didn't matter. It wasn't fair to be placed into such a situation again and again and again. It wasn't fair that the course of his own life was still so wholly outside of his control, directed by forces he did not understand, driving him inexorably toward some destiny he could only vaguely comprehend.

_In the end, you can change everything once more. Give yourself over to darkness, let the fire consume you both, and change everything. Remember._

_Wait,_ Aidan called as the bird flapped its wings and began to soar away. _Wait, I still have questions!_ But already the light was dimming, he was buoyant, rising upward into darkness, into warmth, and gradually he began to perceive that he was being carried, he heard the sound of footsteps on wood, felt the tightness in his stomach and the overwhelming sense of sorrow still with him, and he opened his eyes, but was forced to squeeze them shut again a moment later as a painful, blinding light overwhelmed them.

"Be a lot easier to use a wand," grunted a voice that Aidan recognized, one near at hand.

"Right, see you don't leave yours behind next time, then. Let's get him upstairs," said a firm voice, one that Aidan did not recognize; the voice of a young woman.

"Not me," he tried to say. "Help Justin." But the words lodged in his throat and his lips felt sluggish and leaden, as though his body, furious at the mistreatment it had received at his hands that night, refused to cooperate in his misadventures any further. His every muscle ached with strain and exhaustion, and it felt as if his heart had taken up permanent residence in his head, where it was hosting an extremely raucous housewarming party. Every conscious thought required effort.

"Justin's already up here," said the first voice, the one Aidan recognized. _Since when can he read my mind?_

"I think he's come to, Rosie." There was evident relief in Ciarán's tone.

"Set him down on the bed," the woman's voice instructed. A moment later, Aidan felt himself being placed gently on a firm mattress, and then covers were being pulled over him and tucked expertly around him.

"You're just happy you don't have to carry me anymore," Aidan mumbled, regaining the use of his voice. Tentatively, he opened his eyes again and was forced to squint to keep his eyes from burning. Where _was_ all that light coming from? Without needing to look, he had known Ciarán was carrying him, from the telltale scent of the older boy's body, the way it felt to be pressed up against him, and he swallowed hard. _I never knew he was that strong_.

_That doesn't matter. Where the hell _was_ he?_

Before Aidan could voice that question, however, an unfamiliar face swam into view.

"Are you all right?" the woman asked.

Aidan nodded. "I think so." One of the hands that had been carrying him now rested lightly on his shoulder.

His eyes, which were watering profusely in light so bright he may as well have been staring directly at the sun, gradually began to discern before him the features of a strikingly beautiful young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, with eyes like dark pools and radiant curls of blonde hair that were somewhat disheveled, as if she had only recently climbed out of bed. _Which, considering the time of night, is probably the truth._ Nevertheless, she was extremely pretty, and Aidan could well imagine how popular the Three Broomsticks was with her as its proprietress, particularly with the male half of the population.

"Well, his eyesight's come back," the young woman remarked after a moment. It was only then that Aidan realized he had been staring. Abashed, he quickly looked away, feeling the color rise in his cheeks.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's all right," she replied with a small smile. "If I don't like the way someone's looking at me, I simply hex their eyes out."

"She's only joking," Ciarán said with a grin in his voice. "She likes the attention."

"Don't tempt me, you," the young woman countered, her attention still focused on Aidan. "If I decided to hex you right now, there'd be little you could do about it, seeing as you've left your wand at the castle."

"We left in a hurry," Aidan pointed out, wincing as his heart resumed hammering at the sides of his head.

The young woman pursed her lips but let the subject drop, staring at Aidan in concern. "You sure you're all right? You look a bit peaked."

Aidan nodded and a wave of vertigo swept over him so that he had to squeeze his eyes shut. "I'll be fine."

The proprietress opened her mouth to say something, but was cut short by a loud rap on the door downstairs. "It's about time," she muttered. "Excuse me." She disappeared; Aidan heard her light steps on the wooden stairs followed by the sound of wind and rain as the door below was opened.

"I came as soon as I could," said a gruff voice. "What a night."

"I know," the young woman agreed. "I thought maybe you'd been blown away, constable."

"Sorry, Rosie," the man replied, a bit petulantly, Aidan thought. "I was helping Barnabas Salk out of a tree when I got yer message. Damn fool tried to go flyin' in this weather."

"Was he drunk?"

"What d'you think?"

There was a short pause. "Did you manage to get him down?"

"Aye. And I confiscated his broom. By all rights, I should've locked 'im up." Another pause. "Anyway, here I am. Where's the victim?"

"Upstairs," she answered.

There was a loud clumping noise on the stairs and a moment later, Rosie reappeared in the company of a large, balding, rain-soaked man with a ruddy complexion and a handlebar moustache. "These the ones who found 'im?" the man asked gruffly, catching sight of Ciarán and Aidan.

Rosie nodded.

"Bit late for children to be out, i'n't?" he inquired suspiciously.

"Maybe, but it's a good thing they were, or no one might have gotten to him in time."

"Huh," the man grunted, staring thoughtfully at Ciarán. Aidan braved another bout of vertigo to look over at the older boy, noting with surprise that he was scowling back at the man. "Well, we'll get to that in a minute. D'you mind if we check on the other'n?" he asked, inclining his head toward the door.

"After you," Rosie said. The big man clumped loudly out of the room. "Let it be," she said firmly to Ciarán, catching his angry look. "He's only doing his job."

"Poorly," the older boy muttered.

"Oh? And how many Dark Wizards have you captured, then?"

"He'd capture a whole lot more if he wasn't always after me."

"Maybe if you weren't always after breaking the rules?" suggested Rosie gently.

"I'm _not_ always—" Ciarán began fiercely, but cut himself off, as if afraid the constable might hear him. "Forget it."

Rosie nodded once and disappeared after the older man.

Silence reigned for a few moments, or near-silence. Aidan's heart may as well have been excavating for oil in his head with all of its noisy pounding, and his muscles ached bitterly. _Never again without a wand_, thought Aidan miserably, wincing. However he had managed to get himself and Justin back here, the effort was now taking its toll. His whole body felt exhausted, utterly drained. Even his mind had given up trying to be heard above the cacophony in his head and had slowed to a sluggish crawl.

_There's more to Ciarán than meets the eye_. _What's he done to earn the constable's ire?_

"You're full of surprises," Ciarán quietly remarked, interrupting Aidan's thoughts if not his headache.

Aidan turned toward the older boy too quickly, and it took a moment for the world to stop spinning. "Oh?"

"You Apparated," Ciarán told him. "Right in the middle of the room. Only wizards who are of age are allowed to do that, and it's supposed to be really difficult. Then there's the fact that you did it without a wand. And, of course, the fact that you knew about Justin at all." The older boy regarded him quizzically.

Aidan's mind, in its sluggish state and overwhelmed by the pounding in his head, found it was unable to formulate a suitable response. About the best he could do was shrug. The act seemed to cost an enormous amount of effort. He was so utterly exhausted, beyond the point of collapse; he worried he would never feel alive again.

"Never mind," said Ciarán, obviously noticing his fatigue. "You should sleep."

"Thanks," Aidan whispered. Already the light was dimming as his body succumbed to darkness; Ciarán's features softened into boyishness, grew faint, seemed to draw away from him until Ciarán was nothing more than a shadow in the midst of rapidly-descending darkness. _There's darkness there,_ said a voice. _Now what made me think that?_ Before he could discover the answer to the question, he had drifted off to sleep.

At first, Aidan was afraid the bird would return, as was its wont whenever he was subject to one of his abnormally-frequent bouts of unconsciousness, but there was nothing to interrupt the darkness this time, neither dreams nor stray thoughts. After what might have been a moment or an eternity—there was no way to tell—he opened his eyes again. The pain in his head had subsided considerably, leaving only a dull ache in its place. The light in the room now seemed subdued, so that Aidan was finally able to make out his surroundings. He was lying on a large bed with a red and gold embroidered bedspread. The ruddy light of a dying fire flickered from the fireplace on the left wall, illuminating a lustrous mahogany bureau directly across from him, above which a polished mirror hung. On his immediate left stood a mahogany nightstand on which a small pitcher and a basin rested. In the corner to his right, Ciarán was sprawled out in an overstuffed arm chair, dozing quietly; on the right wall was the door, which had been closed. The room itself was relatively small, and Aidan surmised that it was meant to be a guest bedroom of sorts.

Quietly, he sat up, so as not to disturb Ciarán, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wondering what the time was. The events of the past night seemed to jumble together in his mind, and it took him a moment to recall them. He needed to make sure Justin was doing all right. Carefully, he slid back the covers, not wanting to wake Ciarán, and stood up. The floorboard beneath his feet creaked softly. Casting one last glance at the older boy in the corner, Aidan tiptoed past him to the door, silently turning the handle and pulling it open ever so slowly. Unlike the door downstairs, this one did not creak on its hinges as it opened, and Aidan found himself looking into a darkened hall. The staircase to his right was clearly visible, illuminated from below by what could only be daylight streaming through the windows downstairs. To his left, across the hall, Aidan could see the faint outline of a door.

With great care, he slipped out into the hall and quietly made his way toward the other door. This one made no sound as he opened it and peered into what he realized was the master bedroom. It was mid-morning; sunlight streamed through the white gauze curtains that covered the large windows on the far wall, which extended outward in a sort of half-circle. A great bed had been placed immediately beneath the windows and looked unused; its patterned white bedspread was neat and tidy; its overstuffed pillows were likewise untouched. Rosie was seated before a large white marble fireplace on the right-hand wall in an armchair similar to the one in which Ciarán slept, reading a large volume; she looked up as Aidan poked his head into the room and beckoned for him to enter.

"Sorry," Aidan said, stepping into the room. "I just wanted to make sure Justin was all right."

"He's not here," the young woman answered. "He was taken up to the hospital wing at the school."

"Is he okay?" Aidan asked.

Rosie looked at him somberly. "Whoever attacked him nearly killed him. It's lucky for him that you found him when you did. They're thinking they might have to transfer him to Saint Mungo's." Her expression became curious. "How did you manage to find him?"

Aidan shrugged awkwardly. How did one explain prophecy? "Er, well I sort of…saw it happen."

"You were there?"

"No."

"Ah, you had a vision," Rosie concluded without missing a beat.

Aidan nodded mutely.

"It's a rare gift."

"Sometimes. Not all of my visions are so helpful."

Rosie looked thoughtful. "Well, but you have to remember, you see the things you see for a reason."

"Maybe." He did not want to talk about it. "Anyway, sorry to bother you."

"It's no bother," she replied, holding up the book. "I'm an insomniac anyway. Comes of opening late and closing late, I suppose."

"What time is it, anyway?"

"About nine in the morning. Don't worry," Rosie added, seeing the dismayed look on his face. "Headmistress McGonagall already knows you're here."

Aidan's stomach knotted. "She does?"

"She was a bit put out, but I told her it would be better not to wake you."

"Thank you," Aidan replied, a feeling of dread building in the pit of his stomach. _She knows_, he thought. _What will she do? Suspend me? Throw me out?_

"She'll be along in a while," Rosie said. "I think she has a few questions."

Aidan swallowed. "I can imagine."

"It'll be all right," Rosie said, smiling reassuringly. "She's not nearly as bad as she seems." Her dark eyes sparkled merrily. "Well, maybe you have to be on the other side to figure that out. I still remember how terrifying she seemed when I attended Hogwarts." She closed the book and stood up, stretching and stifling a yawn. Aidan realized that she had found the time to add those touches to her appearance which only served to enhance her beauty. Her hair was now neatly combed, its golden locks cascading gently over her shoulders and down the back of her rich blue dress; her cheeks held just the slightest hint of color, and a small amount of makeup had been applied her lips, which had given way to a small, knowing smile.

"You're staring again."

Aidan caught himself and looked away, blushing fiercely. "Sorry."

"Why don't you go wake Ciarán and we'll have some breakfast?"

Aidan nodded quickly, not daring to look directly at her, and made a hasty retreat.

_Great,_ he thought sourly as he quietly reentered the guest bedroom, _now I'm confused_. He paused to gaze at Ciarán's sleeping form, at the way his chest rose and fell with every breath, the way his mouth parted slightly as he exhaled, how his dark hair hung loosely over his face. He felt something that was wholly different from what he felt when he looked at Rosie, but he didn't know what it was. _Why do these things have to be so complicated?_

Still he stared at the older boy, trying to make sense of his feelings. If there was an angelic, unearthly quality about the way Rosie looked, it was present in Ciarán, too, he decided, but in a different form. Whereas with Rosie he was awed by her grace and beauty, with Ciarán he felt—what, a longing, a tenderness? Love?

_It can't be love_, he told himself. _I'm too young for that._

Ciarán stirred slightly and opened his eyes, yawning stretching his lithe form. _How I'd like to see more of that,_ Aidan thought, remembering the firm arms that had carried him the previous night. _I must be…like him. So why can't I stop staring at Rosie?_

"What is it?" the older boy asked sleepily, noticing Aidan's gaze.

Aidan sighed. _There are never any easy answers. Why can't the universe just say in a big, booming voice, "You're gay!" and get it over with? At least then I'd know for sure._ Aloud he said, "Nothing. You want breakfast?"

"Sounds good," Ciarán said sitting up. "Oof. Next time, you get the chair," he added, rubbing his back painfully.

_There is one way to know,_ a voice suggested in the back of his mind. His heart began to pound furiously at the implication, nearly bowling him over as his knees suddenly went slack, while at the same time a sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stumbled slightly, and had to grab hold of the doorframe to stay upright.

Ciarán looked up at him, concern written all over his face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Aidan squeaked. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Fine," he said again, in a voice that was closer to his own. _I can't do it_, he told the voice in his mind.

_If you don't, you'll never know._

_If I do…_

"Maybe you should sit down," Ciarán suggested, standing and holding out one hand.

_Take his hand!_

His hand felt like a block of ice, his arms felt like they had turned into molasses. With a supreme effort, he managed to get one hand into Ciarán's and let the older boy guide him over to the bed.

"Sit," Ciarán instructed. Slowly, Aidan remembered how to work his legs and sat on the edge of the bed, staring anxiously up at the older boy, whose hand had not released his.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Ciarán asked. "You're shaking."

Aidan nodded dumbly, struggling to find his voice. "I—I need to know," he finally managed to say.

"Know what?"

_Tell him!_

_God, why do you make it so hard!_ Aidan took a breath and tried again. "I need to know if…if I'm…" His mouth was twitching, his lips wouldn't respond, he felt like he was going to throw up. "If I'm—like you," he whispered hoarsely.

"Oh," Ciarán said softly, surprise and comprehension dawning on his face. He turned and strode to the door, closing it gently before returning to sit next to Aidan on the bed.

"All right," the older boy said, "ask me anything."

Aidan shook his head. _He doesn't get it, doesn't understand._ "Kiss me," he whispered.

"What?"

"Again. Like the first time. Kiss me." Aidan was shaking all over, but he had to know, had to press on, had to find out.

"I thought…" Ciarán frowned and paused. "Are you sure?" he asked finally.

"No," Aidan croaked, tears springing to his eyes. _I don't know anything anymore!_

Ciarán swallowed and nodded slowly. "Okay," he whispered. For a moment, neither of the two boys moved, and then, slowly, imperceptibly at first, Ciarán leaned in, the firelight reflecting softly in his liquid blue eyes, his dark hair hanging over his face, his beautiful face, so inviting. Instinctively, Aidan leaned forward, and their lips brushed, tentatively at first, like the first time, in the darkened classroom. Something inside Aidan broke and a surge of longing flooded over him, spread like fire outward from his chest, something warm and all-consuming, that felt _right_ somehow, and he pressed closer to Ciarán, who responded in kind, pushing back, pushing him gently to the bed. Aidan's pulse was racing, his extremities were tingling, he felt like he was veering out of control, it was so wonderful and so right and it hurt because it was so right, it hurt because it was everything he wanted, it hurt because it promised to fill that empty spot inside of him, to soothe away the years of silent grief, and he realized the tears were flowing freely now and then it was all over, and Ciarán was staring at him in concern, panting heavily, and he was staring at Ciarán, breathing hard and trying to fight back the wracking sobs which threatened to overtake him.

"It's not right, is it?" Ciarán asked softly, looking sorrowful.

Aidan shook his head and tried to find his voice again, but Ciarán just nodded once and rolled into a standing position. "So now you know," he said in a quavering voice, doing his best not to look hurt and miserable but not quite succeeding.

"Yes," Aidan said in a voice equally as shaken. "I know. I want you."

Ciarán stared at him as if not quite daring to believe. "What?"

Aidan sniffed and sat up, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I want you." The admission in and of itself was nearly enough to start the tears flowing again and it took him a minute to beat the rising feelings back into submission.

"Then why did you start crying?"

"Because I was happy." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't the complete truth. But it was close enough, and easier to explain. "And I've never felt that happy before."

"Oh." Ciarán walked back over to the bed and sat down next to him. After a moment, he cautiously placed one hand over Aidan's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I thought I'd done something wrong."

Aidan laughed despite himself, laughed because he realized how insecure he must have caused the older boy to feel, when in reality he had no reason to feel that way. "No. I'm the one who messed it up. You did everything right." He leaned his head on the older boy's shoulder and they lapsed into silence for a time, lost in each other's eyes.

"Shall we try again?" Ciarán suggested at length.

Aidan nodded. This time, when they kissed, it was with more urgency than before, and Aidan was surprised to feel Ciarán's tongue probing gently at his mouth and was even more surprised when he opened his mouth and found the older boy's tongue inside. It was weird, and messy, and he wasn't sure if it was at all what he expected of a so-called "French kiss" but it didn't matter. He lost himself in the feel of Ciarán, running his hands eagerly over the older boy's face, down his neck and over his shoulders, trying to pick out every curve of the older boy's body, which was made difficult because of the sweater.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Ciarán asked in a husky voice when they came up for air.

Aidan bit his lip. "Yes," he decided, his own voice considerably lower than he was used to. "Only…" he faltered.

"Only what?"

"I've…never done it before." And that also wasn't quite true, but it was close enough and easier to explain, and besides, he had never willingly done anything like this with another person before.

"Don't worry," Ciarán said. "I'll show you how."

"But—" began Aidan, but Ciarán placed a finger on his lips and he fell silent as Ciarán leaned in and gently brushed Aidan's lips with his own, kissing them softly.

_I've got to pay attention so I know how to do this,_ he resolved, but that resolution went out the window as Ciarán began to gently kiss his way down Aidan's cheek to his neck, causing Aidan to squirm and gasp with the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that spread outward from his neck.

"It gets even better without the coat," Ciarán remarked dryly, tugging gently at the collar of his jacket, which Aidan was still wearing. "And the shirt," the older boy added, helping Aidan to shrug out of both and gently pushing him down onto the bed.

Aidan suddenly felt self-conscious, remembering the skinny, red-haired boy he saw in the mirror every day, and he worried that Ciarán might not find him attractive enough to continue. It was hard, to feel so exposed and so vulnerable, to need someone so badly and to be so dependent upon their acceptance, but his worries were quickly laid to rest—or rather, they were quickly forgotten as the older boy straddled him at the waist and resumed exploring his body, but with more than his mouth this time, running his hands lightly over Aidan's exposed chest and stomach, fluttering closer and closer to his waist but always pulling away at the last second. Aidan was panting heavily, his heart was pounding against his ribcage; he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth every time Ciarán made contact with his bare skin, lest the building waves of pleasure overwhelm him.

"Having fun yet?" Ciarán asked, breaking off and grinning mischievously at Aidan.

It was all Aidan could do to nod.

"Good," the older boy said, his grin widening, turning around and pulling off first one of Aidan's shoes, then the other.

"What're you—ah, haha, don't, that tickles!" For Ciarán had deftly removed Aidan's socks and begun to run his hands lightly over the younger boy's bare feet. Aidan squirmed and writhed, convulsing and helpless with laughter and pleasure as the older boy assaulted his toes, his ankles, and the underside of each foot where it was most sensitive.

"You like it, you know you do," Ciarán laughed as Aidan finally managed to pull his feet away from the older boy.

"I do," Aidan agreed, breathing heavily and sitting up, "but now you've had it!" He roared and charged at the older boy, grabbing him by the waist, toppling him to the bed and scrambling on top of him. "Let's see how you like it!" he shouted and proceeded to tickle Ciarán's sides mercilessly.

"Acknoooargh!" was about all Ciarán could say under the onslaught. He tried to brush Aidan's hands aside with his own, but Aidan skillfully avoided his passes and continued tickling the older boy ruthlessly, an evil smile on his face.

"I surrender!" Ciarán gasped. "I promise never to do that again!"

"You promise?" Aidan asked, relenting.

The older boy nodded. He was breathing heavily, his face was flushed and sweat was trickling down his brow. Aidan pretended to consider it. "All right," he said at length, rolling off of the older boy to lie, panting, next to him.

"Gotcha!" Ciarán shouted, whipping around and straddling Aidan again. "And this time—"

They were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. "What are you two _doing_ in there?" Rosie's voice called.

The two boys looked at each other.

"Um—" Ciarán said.

"Er—" said Aidan at the same time.

"Yes?" Rosie prompted in a manner that indicated she knew all too well what the pair had been up to.

"Just a bit of high spirits, Rosie!" Ciarán replied in a reasonable tone of voice.

"Oh, really, is that what you call it? Look, the Headmistress will personally bite my head off and use it for Quidditch practice if she finds out I let you two do what you're doing. So come on down to breakfast!"

"But how will she find out?" Ciarán inquired mischievously.

"Because she's downstairs," Rosie replied in an even tone. "I'll give you two minutes to make yourselves presentable."

"We should've been quieter," Aidan said as the sound of Rosie's footfalls on the stairs reached their ears.

"Yeah," Ciarán agreed. They disentangled themselves from each other. "But there'll be other times, right?"

Aidan grinned and nodded as he retrieved his clothes.

"Well then, Mr. Hayes, will you do me the honor of having breakfast with me?" Ciarán asked once Aidan was dressed again, holding out one hand to Aidan while the other was tucked behind his back, making him look for all the world like a proper and respectable gentleman.

"I'd be delighted, Mr. Dwyer."

Hand in hand, the two boys went downstairs to have breakfast.


	13. Loss

Phoenix Song

**I SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT I AM UP TO NO GOOD:** This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your room (or space), house (or dwelling), block (or zone), suburb (or community), city (or township), state (or province), country (or continent), league of countries (or nations), planet (or any satellite thereof), star system (or sector), federation of worlds (or space bodies), galaxy (or star cluster), or universe (or that which transcends it), or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse or otherwise irritate and/or annoy you, go read the story with the Inoffensive Politically Correct Fluffy Bunnies entitled "Everyone's Unique (Which Makes them Exactly Alike)" instead of this one. Furthermore, be advised that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, their origins or their destinies, nor do I claim to; my power is limited to characters of my own creation. Should any of J. K. Rowling's characters desire to return to her domain, they are free to do so at any time, provided their transit paperwork is in order and they have received the appropriate inoculations.

THIRTEEN

Under proper lighting, it was evident that Three Broomsticks was nearly the same size as the Leaky Cauldron; but where the Leaky Cauldron felt dark and dingy to the point of being claustrophobic, the Three Broomsticks felt spacious and welcoming, due in large part to the amount of daylight that streamed in through its large windows. A majority of the room was given over to the fifteen small wooden tables and their accompanying chairs that served most of the pub's patrons, while two overstuffed arm chairs similar to the ones upstairs had been placed before the stone fireplace, in which a small fire now crackled cheerfully. On the wall nearest the stairs was the bar proper, made of a dark and highly-polished wood and lined by several stools. Behind the bar, Rosie was busying herself with plates and silverware; she smiled as the two boys entered the room and nodded toward the table closest to the fireplace at which McGonagall sat. Through the windows on the wall opposite the Headmistress, Aidan could see a rich blue sky with puffy white clouds drifting slowly by; all that remained of the previous night's storm. The day promised to be a bright and cheerful one.

_If I survive_.

McGonagall said nothing as the two boys approached the table, which only served to make Aidan uneasy; had she exploded at them, demanding that they return at once to the school and pack their bags, he would have been able to handle it, but she remained silent, her expression giving nothing away. Consequently, Aidan felt as if he was on uneven footing as he pulled a chair up to the small table at which the Headmistress sat, nursing a steaming mug of coffee. He cast an uncertain glance at Ciarán as they sat down; the older boy looked equally nonplussed but flashed him a quick reassuring smile.

_I suppose I should be grateful she's not pummeling me with questions,_ Aidan thought. _I wouldn't even know where to begin._ Along those lines, Aidan was glad the Headmistress was not speaking, as his mind was still struggling to catch up with the events of the past fifteen minutes. He could hardly believe what—almost—happened in the bedroom, and he felt a tingle of excitement charge up and down his spine every time he contemplated it, an electric surge that reached all the way to his mouth. Try as he might, he couldn't help grinning, though he knew that would probably upset McGonagall even more, as she would think he was not taking the whole situation seriously. He did his best to distract himself with his more immediate problems.

It was Ciarán who finally broke the silence. "How's Justin?" he asked quietly.

McGonagall turned her inscrutable gaze on him, seeming to consider him for a moment before replying. "He will live," she said softly. "The immediate danger is past, but he has not yet regained consciousness."

"So we still don't know who attacked him," Aidan said.

"Not yet, Mister Hayes, unless you saw something else during your time in the library?"

Aidan tensed as she turned her attention back to him, but her expression gave nothing away. _Is she going to expel me?_ The thought was made all the more terrible because it involved never seeing Ciarán again. _Unless she expels him, too…_

"No," Aidan said, shaking his head quickly. "I didn't see who attacked him."

McGonagall nodded slowly and sipped at her coffee. "I needn't explain to you, I hope, that your actions last night were irresponsible and highly reprehensible," she began, setting the mug down and staring at Aidan expectantly.

_Here it is at last_. Aidan shook his head mutely, casting his eyes downward.

"He probably saved Justin's life," Ciarán pointed out. Aidan looked over gratefully at the older boy, who returned his look with a resolute "don't-worry-we'll-figure-this-out" expression on his face.

"Indeed, Mister Dwyer, and it is only that fact which allows me any leeway at all to excuse his behavior."

Aidan relaxed with a happy sigh. He wasn't going to be expelled after all.

"You're not off the hook just yet, Mister Hayes," the Headmistress continued, noticing Aidan's relief. "Although I may be able to excuse your behavior by virtue of the life you saved, I will not sanction breaking into the restricted section of the school library, nor the unauthorized use of Floo powder, nor your failure to immediately notify the appropriate authorities, who, I might remind you, are far more qualified to handle events such as this one." Her nostrils flared slightly as she stared from Aidan to Ciarán; she was evidently repressing some extreme emotion. "Hogwarts unfortunately has a long history of students who feel compelled to take matters into their own hands, and while I may not be wholly able to do away with that ill-begotten tradition, I expect I can impress upon you both the wisdom of seeking assistance from the _proper_ persons before you undertake to save the world?"

Both boys nodded quickly.

"We have lost our fair share of students who thought they were equal to the task they ever so impetuously chose to tackle only to discover, all too late, that they were not," McGonagall told them. Her voice was tight and there was the faintest echo of sorrow in her eyes that struck deeply within Aidan, stirring up feelings of guilt and remorse; it never occurred to him that she actually cared about the welfare of her students outside that which was required of her as a function of her duties as Headmistress. McGonagall took another breath before speaking again, in a steadier tone of voice. "In an effort to quell some of your impulsiveness, you shall both receive detention for a month. Furthermore, when term starts officially, Ravenclaw house will have twenty-five points taken from it, as will your house, Mister Hayes, whichever one that happens to be."

Ciarán opened his mouth to protest, but McGonagall held up her hand.

"I shall not be swayed, Mister Dwyer, and you can be thankful that it is only twenty-five points. Perhaps your energies should be directed into channels that will help both of your houses to regain those points, instead of finding expression in other ways." The Headmistress regarded them both knowingly. "While we're on the subject of impulsive behavior, I want to make it very clear that, notwithstanding the fact that I am happy that the two of you have found such good friends in each other, the halls and rooms of Hogwarts are to be used only for academic pursuits. Is that understood?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," replied Ciarán with a straight face.

Aidan had to stifle his laughter with a sudden fit of coughing.

"I hope and pray that is the case, Mister Dwyer. You're both far too young just yet for that sort of thing." Though she sounded stern, Aidan thought he saw the faintest hint of a wry smile playing at the corner of McGonagall's mouth. Regardless, the tension seemed to have drained from the room with the pronouncement of their sentence, and Rosie, with an unerring sense of timing, bustled over with bowls of porridge, smiling broadly.

"And you were worried," she said teasingly to Aidan, setting a steaming bowl before him.

"As well he might have been," remarked McGonagall. "He has sense enough for that, at least."

Aidan barely heard her; he was too busy shoveling porridge into his mouth. His stomach, long-ignored, had been awakened by the smell of food and took great pains to inform him of just how ravenous he was. It required another helping of porridge and a plate of eggs and sausages before his stomach was satisfied and Aidan could turn his attention once again to conversation.

"—without a wand," Ciarán was saying animatedly. The older boy had taken to recounting the events of the previous night while Aidan was otherwise occupied.

"Indeed," replied the Headmistress, considering Aidan thoughtfully.

"I don't think I could do it again," Aidan said diffidently. "It took a lot of effort."

"He could hardly stand when he got here," Rosie agreed, having pulled a chair of her own up to the small table after seeing everyone had enough to eat. "He had to be carried upstairs."

"He wouldn't have, if you had just let me borrow your wand," Ciarán accused her.

"Don't pretend it bothered you," she countered. "I know it didn't bother him, did it, Aidan?"

Aidan blushed and coughed self-consciously. Ciarán likewise colored slightly and looked away. "Well…"

"Must you encourage them?" the Headmistress inquired of Rosie with a pained expression on her face.

"Actually, Headmistress, I don't think they need much encouragement," the young woman replied with a sly smile on her face.

"Perhaps, but then it would be best to remain neutral, don't you think?"

"Oh, absolutely," Rosie agreed all too readily, nodding enthusiastically. "Neutrality is undoubtedly the safest course, and the one I intend to take." She turned to the two boys, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Boys, I don't care what you—"

"That is _not_ what I meant!" McGonagall exploded.

"I'm sorry, Headmistress, I thought that's what you—"

"Never mind," McGonagall interrupted wearily, withdrawing a pocket watch from the folds of her robe and looking at it with evident relief. "We need to be going."

"Is it ten o'clock already?" asked Rosie, standing up, all traces of mischief gone from her demeanor. "I need to get ready to open." She began collecting their dishes and utensils.

"Let me help you with those," Ciarán offered, rising to his feet.

"Very gallant of you, Mister Dwyer," Rosie replied, unceremoniously placing the dirty dishes in his outstretched arms.

"I didn't mean all of them!" Ciarán protested, following the empty-handed young woman behind the bar.

"Ah, should've been more specific, then: 'Let me help you with _some_ of those, Rosie,' eh?"

McGonagall watched them disappear through the doorway behind the bar with faint amusement before turning her attention to Aidan. "When we return to the castle, I want a few words with you concerning your visions."

Aidan nodded. "May we look in on Justin first?"

The Headmistress considered him unblinkingly for a short time before she replied. "We shall stop by the hospital wing first, yes. It's a mark of great maturity, Mister Hayes, that you are able to find concern within yourself for a young man who is a notorious bully."

_Does she know what happened between Blair and me?_ Aidan wondered. It was not improbable; there seemed to be no limit to McGonagall's awareness, but Aidan had not told her. "He's still a person," he pointed out softly. Despite what happened in the hallway at the beginning of the summer, he nevertheless felt a certain sense of responsibility toward the older boy and, in fact, a sense of concern that had not been there prior to the vision. _In any event, he's not the real bully—Blair is._

"Indeed."

"Thank you for your kind assistance, Mister Dwyer," said Rosie with due gravity as she and Ciarán reappeared behind the bar. "Rest assured that I shall not forget it. I may even be able to employ you as a kitchen hand provided, of course, that you promise to pay for any dishes you break."

"No, thank you," Ciarán replied in an equally formal tone, "I should prefer to remain a customer and break as many dishes as I please," whereupon they both burst into laughter.

"If you've quite finished," said McGonagall mildly, rising from her chair and gesturing toward the fireplace. The two boys walked over to the fireplace and took down the jar of the Floo Powder. "Thank you for your hospitality, Rosie," the Headmistress said as Ciarán tossed a handful of the emerald powder into the flames, which obediently leapt up and turned a fiery green.

The young proprietress smiled and shook her head, holding up a staying hand. "Not necessary," she told McGonagall, "it's my business. Come back often, you two," she added to Ciarán and Aidan, and then, catching McGonagall's look, quickly amended: "With permission, of course." She beamed. "You too, Headmistress."

"I shall," McGonagall promised, casting an ironic glance at her two charges. "Often."

"Shall we?" Ciarán inquired, replacing the jar of Floo Powder.

"Let's," Aidan said. The two boys took each other's hands and stepped into the flames. "Hogwarts!" they cried and vanished in a great rush of green fire and emerald smoke.

"Good luck with those two," Rosie said dryly as McGonagall stepped into the flames.

"Have a large brandy waiting for me when I return," the Headmistress responded evenly. "Hogwarts!"

As promised, the Headmistress led them directly to the hospital wing. Several beds, dressed in white, lined each side of the narrow hall, but only one at the far end was presently occupied. Aidan and Ciarán quietly approached the bed on which Justin Nash lay while McGonagall went off to confer with Madame Pomfrey. The older boy looked extremely pale, perhaps a trifle less so than the sheets which covered him; his auburn hair was limp and matted, and there was a look of discomfort on his face. His breathing was so shallow that at first Aidan was afraid he wasn't breathing at all until he saw the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the boy's chest beneath the blanket.

"He doesn't look good," Aidan observed quietly.

"Did he ever?" Ciarán asked.

"You know what I mean."

"He'll get better," said Ciarán confidently.

"I hope so," said Aidan fervently, recalling the look of shock and recognition on Justin's face just before the spell struck him. _He knows who did it. And his attacker's still out there, free to attack again unless we find out who they are._ He shivered slightly, recalling the feel of the wand in his hand as power erupted from it, an incandescent white light, blazing in the night, lighting up Justin's terrified features…

_It wasn't me!_ he angrily reminded himself. _It was just a vision!_

He shivered again and unconsciously stepped closer to Ciarán, letting the older boy's warmth and solidity reassure him. _It was just a vision._

Hesitantly, as if the act was something new to him, Ciarán wrapped his arms around Aidan, pulling him close. They stood silently, looking at Justin's still form, each boy lost in thought, until McGonagall reemerged from Madame Pomfrey's office with a rolled piece of parchment in one hand.

"Would you take this letter to the owlery for me?" the Headmistress asked Ciarán. "The parents of young Mister Nash need to be informed of their son's condition, and I need a few moments alone with Mister Hayes."

The older boy nodded. "Of course. I'll see you in a while," he said to Aidan, taking the roll of parchment from McGonagall's hand.

"I'm quite certain of that," the Headmistress said dryly. "Come into the office, Mister Hayes."

Aidan watched Ciarán go with mixed feelings, the meanings of which were not all apparent to him, before following McGonagall into Madame Pomfrey's office, which reminded him strongly of a doctor's office, but without the examination table. A desk and several wooden filing cabinets occupied most of the space in the small room; various charts detailing different parts of human and not-so-human anatomy were pinned to the wall, and an altogether-too-realistic skeleton hung in one corner. Madame Pomfrey was bustling about her desk, cleaning up rolls of parchment; she looked up as Aidan and McGonagall entered.

"May we borrow your office for a few minutes, Poppy?"

"Of course," the other woman replied, "if you don't mind a bit of disorganization."

"Not at all," the Headmistress said, more out of courtesy, Aidan suspected, than actual fact; McGonagall was well-known for her tidiness.

"Right," said Madame Pomfrey, tossing the armful of parchment she carried back onto the desk. "If you'll excuse me." She strode out and closed the door behind her.

The Headmistress indicated a wooden chair on the near side of the desk with one outstretched hand. "Have a seat."

Obediently, Aidan sat while McGonagall briefly eyed the pile of paper on the desk with obvious distaste before turning her attention back to him.

"Mister Filch tells me you had in your possession a book about the Dark Arts at the time he apprehended you," McGonagall began, seating herself on the other side of the desk and peering at Aidan over the top of her spectacles. "I'm sure you've discovered for yourself why such books are thus restricted, so I won't lecture you on the necessity of respecting such a boundary."

"I won't do it again," Aidan promised, remembering the hideous face that had leered up at him out of the pages of the book and wishing Ciarán were still present. _Oh, come on,_ he scolded himself, _I don't need him to hold me for every little fright._

_No, but it's nice,_ said another voice.

"I believe you, but I would like to know why you chose that particular book."

"I didn't. Not at first, anyway. I was trying to find out about the Third Darkness," Aidan explained. "That's why I broke into the library."

"Did it never occur to you to ask me first?"

Aidan considered his response for a moment before settling on the truth. "I was afraid you'd say no," he admitted. "Nobody has wanted to tell me anything since I got here, except for the portrait you keep in your office."

"There is such a thing as knowing too much, Mister Hayes, particularly if you are not yet capable of handling the information you seek. Nevertheless," McGonagall continued, holding up a hand to forestall Aidan's protest that he could handle the information, if she would only give it to him, "that is not the primary reason I wished to speak with you."

Aidan nodded, deciding to let the matter drop for the time being. "You said you wanted to know about my visions."

"Precisely," the Headmistress affirmed. "I would like you to tell me everything you can recall seeing in your visions, starting with your most recent one."

"Didn't Dumbledore tell you?"

"No. He told me you would tell me when you were ready. The man can be most vexing when he wishes it."

"He must have been even more fun in real life," Aidan remarked without thinking, catching himself only after the words had already come out of his mouth. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

"He was indeed," the Headmistress replied, waving his apology aside. "Tell me about your most recent vision. What did you see?"

"I saw it in the pages of the book first," Aidan began, finding the memory easy to recall and not at all sure he liked it. "It was kind of like watching it on a television—do you know what those are?"

"I'm not completely ignorant," the Headmistress answered dryly. "Go on."

"Sorry. Well, when I leaned in to get a closer look, I—I don't know how, but I fell into the book. Does that make any sense?"

McGonagall nodded. "Continue."

"After that, it was like I was there, in the place I saw—Hogsmeade, though I didn't know that at the time—watching what was happening."

The Headmistress leaned forward, staring keenly at him. "Were you an active participant in what unfolded after that?"

Aidan hesitated. _Do I tell her the truth? And let her think I attacked Justin? But she's got to know I didn't. I couldn't have—I was in the library; I even got caught by Filch. And why would I go through all that trouble to save him if I was the one who attacked him?_ Though he could not deny those facts, he could not shake the _reality_ of the wand in his hand, its solidity, the way it felt as he wielded it; sleek and cool to the touch even as it blazed with brilliant white light, even as it cut Justin down…

"Mister Hayes?"

"Sorry?" Aidan asked, coming to. How easy it had been to slip back into the memory, the feel of the events, as if he had personally been there—but that was impossible, wasn't it? _How will I convince her if I can't even convince myself?_

"No," he finally answered. "I was there, but I couldn't do anything." That was partially true, anyway; he couldn't stop the attack or warn Justin, though he tried.

McGonagall nodded slowly. "Very well. Continue."

"I saw a figure waiting outside of one of the shops," Aidan continued carefully, all the while repeating, _It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me,_ in his head. "It looked like it was expecting someone."

"Can you describe it?"

"Er…" Here Aidan was at a loss. "No," he said at length. Which was true enough; he couldn't accurately describe the attacker, having been the—been _inside_ the attacker. "It was wearing a cloak," he quickly added. Though he couldn't be certain if it was the truth, it did make sense, as otherwise Justin would have been able to identify his assailant immediately.

"Could you make out any identifying features at all?"

Aidan shook his head. "No."

The Headmistress sighed and sat back in her chair. "Then it seems we shall have to wait for Mister Nash to recover before we discover the assailant's identity. Go on."

"There's not much else," Aidan said, eager to make an end of the half-truth he was being forced to spin. "Justin came out of one of the shops, and the figure followed him. I thought something bad was about to happen, so I followed both of them. When they got to the last street corner, the figure caught him up. It looked like Justin recognized who it was, but before he could do anything, the figure attacked him."

_Power pulsing from the wand, a bright white light, the taste of fear…_

Aidan shook his head to clear it. "I tried to warn him, but I couldn't," he added.

"What was the spell the attacker used?"

_The feel of the wand, the look on Justin's face…_

_It wasn't me!_

"I don't remember the exact words," Aidan said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Try to remember, Mister Hayes, as it may give us something to go on."

Aidan concentrated, trying to work his way backward from the flash of light, the feel of the wand, the pure terror on Justin's face; backward, before the attack, before the blinding light and the feel of triumph, reveling in the other boy's fear. The thrill of power, that was what it was, and he liked it, it was intoxicating, and this was only the beginning, there were others, many, many others, and he would do the same thing to them all.

_It wasn't me! I had no control!_

_How could something that felt so real be unreal? Wasn't I there? Didn't I do those things?_

_No!_

The look on Justin's face, why did that haunt him so?

_Because I've been on the receiving end of someone's lust for power, just like him._

For, he realized, that was exactly why Morgan had done it, for the sense of power, of complete and utter control over another life. His life. And even though he had been the victim, there had been planted within him the seed of darkness—he felt it, burning like a cold fire, like the essence of night without stars, warping the space it occupied, warping his heart, draining him of all life—and wasn't it conceivable, given his powers, that it might branch out, find ways and means of expression that Morgan could not even dream of?

_No! I won't be like Morgan! I won't!_

_Too late. You made that decision on the first night, when you secretly enjoyed what he was doing to you. And now you've found a way to do the same thing to others._

He imagined Ciarán's face in place of Justin's as he roared the curse, the look of shock and surprise and sorrow and betrayal and loss and utter surrender to the inevitable, the look that says "I love you anyway"—all of that would all commingle on the older boy's face as he struck him down, the sense of power that came from striking down your best friend—and his mind recoiled, rebelled against the imagery but could not overcome it.

_You've already done it once,_ said Morgan's voice in the vaults of his mind, _and you liked it. You'd do it again. Even to your best friend, your only friend._

"No!" Aidan cried out and clasped his head in his hands, trying to wipe the sensations from his mind. He felt dirty all over, like he'd never be clean again, like a thousand baths would not remove the stain of what he was, what Morgan had made of him, what he tried to deny but what ultimately resurfaced: evil.

"What is it?" the Headmistress asked, startled.

"I can't do it!" Aidan said in a shaky voice, on the verge of tears.

"It was just a question, Mister Hayes. Where are you going? Come back!"

Aidan wasn't listening to her; he was panting hard, his heart was pounding loudly in his head, his thoughts were racing, and he was racing for the door. He wrenched it open and dashed out into the hospital wing, past a startled Madame Pomfrey, and through the doors into the corridor outside.

_I won't do it,_ he thought, tears streaming down his face as he ran down the hall. _I won't hurt Ciarán._ He might not be able to stop the darkness that was in him from coming out, but he could go so far away that Ciarán would never be at risk. _I'll never see him again._

The thought was a wrenching one, but it only served to steel his resolve. He flew down the stairs, nearly colliding with someone; he did not look up to see who it was, intent on pushing past them, on getting to the great wooden doors in the entrance hall, getting far away from this place, but something caught his wrist: a hand, pulling him close and then he was sobbing uncontrollably, pounding his free hand against Ciarán's chest while the older boy held him tightly, a dark rock in the stormy sea he'd become, resolute, unyielding even as the waves crashed over it.

"It's okay," Ciarán whispered. "It's okay."

"No, it's not!" Aidan cried. "I'm the one who attacked Justin."

"Impossible," the older boy stated flatly.

"No, you don't understand, I was there, I was holding the wand, I wanted to hurt him, I'm a h-horrible person and—"

"I thought you broke into the library," Ciarán reminded him. "How can you be in two places at once?"

Coming from Ciarán, the question sounded so reasonable, Aidan longed to believe the implications. But Morgan's smirking visage hovered in the background of his mind as if to say, _You know better._

"There's something else bothering you," Ciarán deduced shrewdly. "Something you're not telling me."

Aidan's wracking sobs had subsided to the merest hiccough, leaving him feeling strangely exposed and vulnerable, and it didn't help that Ciarán seemed to know, or at least suspect, more than Aidan wanted. "It's nothing," he murmured, sniffing and wiping the back of his eyes with his free hand.

"No, it isn't," Ciarán persisted gently. "Look, I know a secret when I see one. You can tell me."

Aidan looked up at the older boy's tender, earnest expression and very nearly melted. "I—"

_If you tell him, he'll know you enjoyed it. He'll know just exactly what kind of person you are, and what will he think of you then? You'll lose him._

_But it would be such a relief to tell someone, to not have to carry the pain and sorrow and guilt in silence anymore._

_Can I risk losing him?_

_But what will it matter if I end up hurting him anyway?_

"—can't," he finished, looking away from the older boy lest he see the disappointment there, in his eyes, that came with knowing Aidan didn't trust him enough to reveal his secret. "I want to, but I can't," he amended lamely.

"Okay, you don't have to, but if you ever want to tell me anything, you can."

"Thank you," Aidan murmured, quite abruptly feeling completely drained.

"Okay," the older boy repeated. "Shall we go back upstairs?"

Aidan nodded, letting Ciarán lead him back up the stairs and down the corridor to the hospital wing, where both Madame Pomfrey and Headmistress McGonagall were waiting.

"Look who I ran into," Ciarán said with a grin. "Well, he ran into me, actually."

"All right?" Madame Pomfrey inquired. "Let me feel your forehead," she instructed, placing one hand on Aidan's head. "Thirty-seven degrees exactly," she declared after a moment.

"I'm fine," Aidan said wearily, brushing her hand away. Already the overwhelming feelings had receded, leaving only emptiness and exhaustion in their wake.

"Indeed?" McGonagall looked dubious.

"I think he's still worn out from last night's excitement," Ciarán said. "He probably just needs to rest."

McGonagall arched her eyebrows and turned toward Madame Pomfrey. "I think we'll let an expert rule on that, if you don't mind, Mister Dwyer."

"Well, he hasn't got a temperature," Madame Pomfrey said, turning toward Ciarán. "What was he doing last night?"

"Apparating without a wand," replied the older boy, grinning broadly as if Aidan's feat was the greatest thing he had ever seen.

"Oh? Well, there you are, then!" exclaimed Madame Pomfrey. "Plenty of food and rest will set him right."

"Would you mind if he spent the night here, then?" McGonagall inquired.

"Oh, I hardly think it's that serious, Minerva," said Madame Pomfrey dismissively. "He can get plenty of rest in the dormitories."

The Headmistress cast a glance at Ciarán. "Somehow I doubt that."

"If you insist, but I really don't think—"

Madame Pomfrey was interrupted by a low moan from the far bed, on which Justin lay. Almost as one, the four of them hurried over to the bed, where Justin was stirring fitfully.

"Is he awake?" Aidan asked, momentarily forgetting his fatigue. His question was answered for him by Justin himself as the boy gasped loudly and sat up quickly, breathing heavily and looking around the room with a panicked expression on his face. His eyes lit on Aidan and he scrambled backward, tumbling from the bed despite Madame Pomfrey's valiant efforts to grab hold of him.

"You!" he hissed, scrambling to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at Aidan. "You did this to me!"

Aidan's stomach lurched as his worst fears were confirmed. He sought to run, but Ciarán's fist closed tightly on his wrist. "You were in the library," he said firmly.

"He's delirious," Madame Pomfrey said, withdrawing her wand from her robes. "I'm just going to help you calm down," she said soothingly to Justin, pointing the wand at him.

"No!" Justin cried, leaping onto the bed and snatching the wand from her outstretched hand.

"Easy!" said Madame Pomfrey, holding up her hands as Justin swung the wand around in an arc and pointed it directly at Aidan's chest.

"Put the wand down, Mister Nash," said McGonagall firmly.

Justin shook his head and swallowed hard, a sheen of perspiration visible on his skin. "No! I know he did it, somehow, as revenge!"

"For what?" McGonagall demanded.

"Blair started that fight in the hallway and you know it!" Ciarán exploded angrily.

"You don't know what he is, do you?" Justin asked, staring at the Headmistress in disbelief. "He's not natural," he continued in a quivering voice. "He's not a wizard at all! He's a _perversion_ of everything wizardry stands for!"

_He knows_, Aidan thought, and Morgan's laughter echoed in his ears.

"Put the wand down," McGonagall repeated.

"No!" Justin roared, stamping his foot on the mattress. "Say goodbye to your boyfriend, Dwyer!" There was a terrible light in his eyes, and in that moment Aidan knew with heart-stopping certainty that Justin meant to kill him.

_Good_, said a voice, _then I won't be able to hurt anyone else._

_But I'll miss Ciarán_, said another.

Two things happened in quick succession before Aidan even had time to react: Ciarán cried out, "No!" and threw himself in front of Aidan even as Justin snarled, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

A split second later, McGonagall had withdrawn her own wand from her robes. "_Expelliarmus!_" she thundered. An equally thunderous bang resounded in the enclosed space of the hospital wing, rattling the windows in their frames, accompanied by a brilliant flash of crimson light which sent Justin reeling back into the far wall. He stared in disbelief as Madame Pomfrey's wand flew out of his hand and came clattering to the floor several feet away and then the Headmistress was upon him, livid with rage, brandishing her wand threateningly and shouting at the top of her lungs.

"NO ONE USES AN UNFORGIVABLE CURSE IN MY SCHOOL!"

But Justin was not paying the slightest bit of attention to the Headmistress, who was angrier than Aidan had ever seen her. He was gazing with dread at his hands, flexing them experimentally, and there was no mistaking the panic in his voice when he spoke.

"It didn't work. It always works."

McGonagall's expression turned harder than ice. "Are you saying you've used the Killing Curse before?"

Justin ignored her, gaping at his trembling hands. "The magic's gone." He was panting heavily, sweat was trickling down his face, and the manic light had gone from his eyes, replaced by a look of desperation. "The magic's gone! It's gone!"

"What does he mean?" Madame Pomfrey asked.

"Didn't you see?" Ciarán asked shakily, wincing as Aidan helped him up from the floor where he had landed. "Nothing happened when he performed the curse."

Madame Pomfrey goggled at Justin as the realization dawned on her. "It can't be."

"It's not possible," McGonagall snapped, but even she looked upset and less than certain.

"What could take away magical ability?" Madame Pomfrey murmured. A terrible silence descended upon the four as they watched the Slytherin boy rock himself gently against the wall, tears streaming down his face as he repeated, over and over again, "It's gone."


	14. Dread

Phoenix Song

**I SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT I AM UP TO NO GOOD:** This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your room (or space), house (or dwelling), block (or zone), suburb (or community), city (or township), state (or province), country (or continent), league of countries (or nations), planet (or any satellite thereof), star system (or sector), federation of worlds (or space bodies), galaxy (or star cluster), or universe (or that which transcends it), or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse or otherwise irritate and/or annoy you, go read the story with the Inoffensive Politically Correct Fluffy Bunnies entitled "Everyone's Unique (Which Makes them Exactly Alike)" instead of this one. Furthermore, be advised that I do not own the Harry Potter characters, their origins or their destinies, nor do I claim to; my power is limited to characters of my own creation. Should any of J. K. Rowling's characters desire to return to her domain, they are free to do so at any time, provided their transit paperwork is in order and they have received the appropriate inoculations.

**Author's Note: **w00t! 1,024 hits! You guys are incredible! Thank you for reading!

FOURTEEN

A thousand thoughts raced through Aidan's mind in the stunned silence that followed, all of them bad. If, prior to Justin's reawakening, there had been some part of him that held onto doubt, held onto the hope that he would somehow be vindicated, that part was forever lost to the overwhelming sense of confirmation and despair afforded by Justin's accusing finger; lost to the undisguised loathing in his voice as he spat the word "perversion" at Aidan; lost to the look of unadulterated hatred in his eyes. Aidan felt as though he was sinking under a heavy weight of anguish, and he longed to get away from this place, but Ciarán held him resolutely, one arm wrapped around his shoulders. The older boy would not let him go.

_He believes in me. He even risked his life to save me from Justin's failed curse, the curse that should have killed me._ The inference was staggering, a foreign concept that his mind could not quite wrap itself around.

_He loves me._ The second word sounded hollow in his mind. _He _thinks_ he loves me._ That thought his mind could readily assimilate, that thought worked. _He thinks he loves me, but he doesn't know what I really am. I don't even know what I am, really, but Justin does, and he thought I should die for it. If Ciarán ever found out…_

It was the worst sort of misery Aidan could imagine, to know that someone loved—or thought they loved—you for what they perceived you were, but that those perceptions were wrong, that once they found out the truth, they would despise you. What would it be like to lose the easy sense of camaraderie, so recently rediscovered? To never again feel the older boy pressed against him, solid and reassuring and inviting; to never again know the gentle caress of his lips? He felt as though he would collapse under the burden of sorrow such thoughts entailed; he would surely go mad as that which he valued most was taken from him, even as Justin had done.

_Will that be me?_ he wondered, watching the Slytherin boy rock himself gently back and forth, murmuring the same phrase over and over as he held his upraised hands before him almost imploringly. It was not so difficult to believe, given how ready the grief was to overtake him, and he realized with a start just how thin the line between sanity and despair or madness and utter forgetfulness was even now, in his mind.

_I have to confess._

"Let's get him back onto the bed," Madame Pomfrey directed presently, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Warily, Headmistress McGonagall lowered her wand and grasped the Slytherin boy by one hand while the school nurse took the other. Reduced from explosive mania to a bewildered daze, all of his energy spent just as suddenly as it had come, Justin did not resist their efforts in the slightest as the two women pulled him into a standing position.

"Up you go," said Madame Pomfrey, guiding the boy back into bed and tucking the covers around him. Justin's face had slackened; his eyes were blank and expressionless as they continued to stare at his hands; his murmuring had diminished to the barest whisper.

McGonagall's features had settled into their usual stern estate; when next she spoke, it was in a brisk, clipped manner. "I shall leave Mister Nash in your care, Poppy. You will inform me if he has any further episodes?"

The other woman nodded slowly, her own expression becoming more businesslike; buoyed in part, no doubt, by McGonagall's own. "It would help a great deal if I knew what the curse was that did this to him. It would give me somewhere to start, at least." She sighed heavily and turned back to her patient.

McGonagall, however, was considering Aidan thoughtfully. "You cannot at all recall the words?"

Aidan slowly shook his head, not quite looking at the Headmistress as the heat rose in his face. Remembering his own outburst of a few minutes before, he perceived yet another lapse on his part, a lapse that felt intentional.

_You don't _want _to remember._

It was Morgan's voice, Morgan's form visible in his mind's eye, and yet it was not. It was _his_ voice; it was that deep, dark corner of himself that was hidden from the world—that _had_ to be hidden from the world. Riddled with guilt and self-loathing, that part of himself was now given substance, now personified. _You could if you really tried. Everything else came so easily, didn't it? Tell them everything. Let them all know what kind of person you are. Your boyfriend will be surprised, won't he?_

"Does the lad know something?" inquired Madame Pomfrey with sudden interest, looking away from Justin to stare expectantly between Aidan and the Headmistress.

He would do it, though he knew the consequences. He would confess…

"Perhaps," McGonagall replied thoughtfully. "Without experiencing another episode, Mister Hayes, are you quite certain?"

Aidan shook his head mutely, not daring to open his mouth for fear of what might come out of it. _That's right, lie to them, you're only proving what sort of person you are: a liar, without even the courage to admit your own transgressions._

"There may be a way," the Headmistress told him, seeming to come to a decision, and Aidan was grateful for the interruption. "Come with me, Mister Hayes. _Alone_, Mister Dwyer; this is a highly personal matter."

"O-okay," Ciarán said a touch uncertainly, withdrawing his hand from Aidan's shoulder. "I'll see you in a while," he said to the younger boy as the Headmistress led him from the room. In silence, Aidan followed the Headmistress down the vacant halls, the brisk click-click-click of her footsteps resounding from the stone walls and archways.

_In two weeks, this hall will be filled with students, and where will I be? Locked away when they find out I attacked another student? Where do they lock dangerous people in the wizarding world? Do they have dungeons?_ He imagined himself locked away, chained to a stone wall while rats scurried in the dirt beneath his feet, even venturing so far as to climb over him. He shuddered inwardly. _It isn't fair! I didn't want this power, I didn't want this life, I didn't want to l—to like someone and then lose them forever!_

Somehow his mind kept coming back to that subject; it was a fear that outweighed every other fear in his mind. There were a hundred and one ways that he could lose Ciarán, if not more; so many, in fact, that it would have been a wonder if their relationship survived at all.

_But it's not over yet,_ said a voice like fire in his mind, a voice grim with determination. _It's hardly begun. And I'll hold onto it, whatever the cost. And you can rot,_ it added to the other part of him, the part that looked and sounded like Morgan.

"Quinquatria!" said McGonagall's voice.

Aidan's awareness resurfaced in time to witness the great stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmistress's office grind to one side, revealing the ever-winding staircase beyond. Once more, Aidan found himself being escorted to McGonagall's office.

_Is she taking me to see Dumbledore? But what more can he tell me?_ Of course, McGonagall could have just wanted another private conversation in place where he couldn't run off. He was not certain if the gargoyle would let him out without her presence, but before he could wonder any further, his thoughts were distracted by the office itself, as the Headmistress opened the door and gestured for him to enter .

Only two nights prior, the office had been dank, dark, and thoroughly neglected, covered with dust and cobwebs; more like a tomb than an office. Now the curtains over the high windows had been drawn back, letting shafts of golden sunlight enter to stream over every wooden surface, which showed signs of recent polish. The antique desk in the center of the room had been cleared and organized, and the numerous portraits adorning the walls had also been cared for; no longer covered with films of dust, the occupants could be seen chatting animatedly with each other or snoozing quietly, their heads leaning against their frames. The ones who were awake smiled and nodded as Aidan and McGonagall stepped into the office, and she politely acknowledged them before turning to close the door behind them. Above the door, in the place of honor, the portrait of Albus Dumbledore smiled broadly as Aidan turned toward him, a meaningful look in his twinkling blue eyes.

"There is nothing which is so completely neglected that cannot be restored," the old man said, laying aside the book from which he had been reading. "Unless it simply does not so desire. But, as this is simply an office, and has no desires of its own…" He swept his hand in an arc and turned his beneficent gaze on McGonagall. "Of course, Headmistress McGonagall deserves the credit for doing the dirty work."

Aidan stared at McGonagall curiously, but the Headmistress only smiled softly. Whatever she had discussed with the former Headmaster after Aidan left was between the two of them, but the effect of their conversation had quite obviously been profound.

"I've heard some troubling rumors from the other portraits," Dumbledore continued, his kind look now replaced by one of solemnity. "They tell me a student has been attacked? That he seems to have lost the ability to cast a spell?" A sudden silence fell on the room; every portrait turned to face McGonagall. Even the sleeping ones had stopped snoring, though their eyes were still closed.

"And his reason," McGonagall answered, nodding.

"Curious. I would be most interested to know what sort of spell was capable of doing such a thing."

"As would I," the Headmistress agreed, looking significantly at Aidan. Almost as one, the other portraits turned to stare at Aidan and one or two of the sleeping ones snuck a quick glance when they thought he wasn't looking. Aidan felt very small; he had liked it better when the other portraits could not see him.

"Ah," the old man said, understanding. "You had a vision?" he asked Aidan.

Aidan nodded. "But—but I don't remember the curse," he mumbled. All the eyes considering him were disconcerting; he felt as though they were staring at him accusingly, as if they knew he was not being wholly truthful. One or two of the portraits whispered softly to one another, furthering increasing his discomfort.

"It is my hope that the Pensieve will help him recover that information," McGonagall told Dumbledore.

"Ah."

Dumbledore still had his blue eyes fixed on Aidan, and once again Aidan was overcome with the sense that the old man knew more than he was letting on. "The what?" he asked quickly, eager to distract attention from himself.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "A device that is most helpful when one's thoughts get in the way of one's thinking."

Aidan looked with alarm from the former Headmaster to the Headmistress. He had imagined she was bringing him here to talk, either with Dumbledore or herself—but hooking him up to a machine? "What does it do?" he inquired uneasily.

"It's a brain probe!" one of the portraits shouted maliciously. "Hook him up, Minerva, and let's find out what he knows!" Aidan blanched at the image of being strapped down and connected to a monstrous machine that could read his every thought. There were thoughts that he did not want read.

"It is nothing so crude, Eustace," Dumbledore said reprovingly to the offending portrait, whose occupant was a man in his middle years that had lost neither his boyish looks nor the associated temperament. "As you well know—although, unless I am mistaken, did not one of your descendents attempted to construct just such a device to recover his lost memories?"

"Only to land himself in Saint Mungo's a second time with no memory at all," Headmistress McGonagall added.

"Gilderoy was adopted," the man retorted sullenly. "He had to have been. No true Lockhart would ever be so thick."

McGonagall ignored him and turned back to Aidan. "There is no cause for alarm. The Pensieve simply helps a person to organize his thoughts, and if we are fortunate, it will enable you to recall the spell that was used on Mister Nash." She gestured toward what appeared to be a large stone basin resting on a small wooden stand on the far side of the desk.

Aidan did not relax. The basin looked harmless, but, of course, there was no telling with magical objects. Even as the book had shown him that hideous face before sending him out on an errand to devastate Justin's life, what might the Pensieve show to him? What could it do to him? If all of his memories were laid bare for everyone to see, they would all know what he had done to Justin, and what was more, they would know what Morgan had done to him. They would know not only how it had felt for him to hold the wand, how exhilarating it had been to see Justin crumple to the ground, but how he had never once resisted Morgan until the end, how much guilt the overwhelming waves of pleasure at the end had always brought him, knowing that it had felt good even as it had felt so wrong and yet he had done nothing, _nothing_ to fight the man, which must mean, as Morgan pointed out, that he wanted it to happen, that he enjoyed it, that he was only faking the tears and the sorrow afterward to get someone to feel sorry for him.

And what did all of that mean? What kind of a person did that make him? What would they think of him when they found out? What would they do to him?

Unconsciously, Aidan took a step back, away from the Headmistress. "I can't," he told her, shaking his head. "I can't."

"Your secrets will be safe," Dumbledore said quietly from behind him. "Only the thoughts you choose to place in the basin will be made visible."

Aidan glanced uncertainly at the old man, who was regarding him calmly. The other portraits looked on curiously.

"Will they be able to see as well?" Aidan inquired.

Dumbledore's portrait shook its head. "No. They will know only what you wish to tell them, as will I. Thoughts in the Pensieve are visible only to those in its immediate presence."

Aidan nodded, feeling somewhat reassured. Only the Headmistress would see, and with any luck, she'd only see the part of his vision pertaining to the curse itself. "Okay."

Dumbledore smiled encouragingly.

McGonagall had already taken the Pensieve down from its stand and placed it on the desk. As Aidan approached, he could see that the basin was filled with a silvery substance that seemed to alternate between a liquid and a gaseous state; at times it would undulate gently like the surface of a pond, and at others it would seem to hover like a gentle mist over the interior of the bowl, constantly changing shape.

"What is it?" he asked curiously, leaning closer to the basin despite himself. Although the material was silver in appearance, he noticed it reflected nothing of its surroundings, not even his own face peering intently into its depths.

"The essence of thought," the Headmistress answered. "Now, I want you to close your eyes and concentrate on your vision. Try to remember what you saw."

Aidan took a deep breath and complied. Once again, the ease with which the sensations returned him was disconcerting. He did his best to separate his awareness from the vision itself, but it was just as difficult as before. He heard the pattering of the rain against the pavement, saw his breath mist in the air as he waited for Justin to emerge from the shop, felt the anticipation of knowing what he had set out to do.

Something firm brushed his temple; startled, Aidan opened his eyes to see McGonagall drawing her wand away from the side of his head. A silver thread, like a strand of spider silk, trailed from the tip of her wand, swaying gently in the unseen crosscurrents of air. Carefully, the Headmistress drew the strand of thought down into the basin with her wand; it stretched but did not break until her wand touched the shimmering surface of the bowl's contents. At once, as if stirred up by the new thought, the silvery substance began to swirl about, and a gleaming shape emerged, resolving itself into a familiar form.

"The library?" the figure of Ciarán snorted. "You could've asked McGonagall."

"That was afterward," Aidan explained to the Headmistress. "Before we went into Hogsmeade."

McGonagall nodded. "It can be difficult to focus at first. Try again."

Aidan sighed and closed his eyes once more. It was only natural, he supposed, that the older boy was on his mind; Ciarán seemed to dominate his thinking lately. _He's a whole lot more pleasant to think about than the rest of the things going on in my mind._ He shook his head. _Concentrate. The vision…_

He watched in his mind as Justin emerged from the shop, staring at the rain with some concern before finally deciding to brave it. He followed him, dashing from building to building, from one overhanging eave to the next; unseen, unheard, and unexpected.

Until the last street corner, when he knew he would strike. He tapped Justin on the shoulder and stepped back into the shadow of the overhang, so that Justin would not see his face, hiding so that the boy would not immediately recognize him.

McGonagall brushed his temple again with her wand, and Aidan opened his eyes. The pool of thought was still rotating; as McGonagall touched the tip of her wand to its surface, another figure took shape.

Aidan's mouth went dry as he recognized it. _Oh, no_…

It was himself, at six years of age, huddled and trembling, trying to look as small as possible and looking with fear at something unseen. From somewhere beyond the Pensieve, Morgan's voice could be heard softly calling his name.

"Aidan! I know you're in there. I won't hurt you."

The small figure of himself made no reply, but hunched itself further against an invisible wall, eyes squeezed shut.

"If you won't come out, I'll have to come in."

The tears were streaming down his young Aidan's face as he heard the voice draw closer. He knew what was coming, and so did his older self.

"Gotcha!"

The figure dissolved. Aidan stared at the spot where it had been, overwhelmed with sorrow.

"Sometimes the Pensieve uncovers memories long forgotten," said McGonagall softly. "Perhaps it would be best if we did not continue." She was looking at him with sympathy.

"No," said Aidan, drawing a shaky breath. "I'll try harder. Sorry."

"There is nothing to apologize for. The mind is a complex mechanism, and it is difficult to predict how it will react in a given situation, what connections it will forge between ideas."

Aidan nodded, closing his eyes once more. It was challenging to organize his thoughts; the grief kept lapping at his concentration like the waves against the shore, carrying it away before it could solidify. Finally, with a great deal of effort, he was able to summon his vision to the surface.

"Do I know you?" Justin asked in the vaults of his mind.

Aidan made no reply, grasping his wand tightly in his hand and leveling it at the boy.

Panic-stricken, Justin fumbled for his wand. "What're you doing?"

"Good-bye, Justin."

Justin gaped as he recognized Aidan, but it was too late.

Even as Aidan was about to bellow the terrible words, his mind registered the light touch against his temple that brought him back to reality.

"That will do, Mister Hayes."

It seemed to take an enormous amount of time to pull away from the memories; when Aidan opened his eyes, the figure of Justin had already emerged from the silvery center of the Pensieve, horror-stricken and terrified as an unseen voice thundered, "_Rendan Fortes!_" The figure doubled over and crumpled before vanishing.

The Headmistress frowned. "Odd. I'm unfamiliar with that spell." She took up a quill from the desk and scratched the words of the spell onto a spare bit of parchment.

"We can't take the suspense any longer!" a voice called. "Did you find anything out from the lad, Minerva?"

"Indeed?" McGonagall remarked loudly. "To what suspense would you be referring, seeing as you've been 'asleep' this whole time?"

"She has you there."

"Oh, stow it, Dilys."

"Patience, Phineas."

"You can be patient, Dumbledore; I choose to be informed."

"Then allow me to inform you that unless you find some patience, you and Sir Cadogan will be sharing the same wall space," McGonagall said shortly.

"Take your time, Headmistress; I've nowhere to be today."

"How extremely generous of you," McGonagall replied in a tone overflowing with irony, returning to her study of the words on the parchment. "_Rendan…fortes_," she muttered to herself. "The Latin is horrible. But then, I don't suppose the person who designed this spell was concerned with anything other than its effect. It is clearly meant to strip a person of their magical ability, although how such a thing is possible is beyond my comprehension."

Aidan remained quiet while the Headmistress scowled at the words as if angry that they were not revealing their origin and purpose to her. He was afraid to speak up, lest the Headmistress ask him any questions that would cause him to slip and admit his own part in the attack on Justin; he knew if McGonagall regarded him with the same expression she was using on the parchment, he would be hard-pressed to not reveal everything. Part of the difficulty rested on the fact that he wanted nothing more than to do just that, to rid himself of the awful burden of concealing such a secret. The only thing that prevented him from so doing was the thought that it would all be over if he did so; he would be locked away and he would never see Ciarán again.

"Perhaps one of us might be of some assistance," Dumbledore suggested at length from his portrait.

"What?" McGonagall blinked. "Yes, of course. I apologize." She turned her attention back to Aidan. "Thank you, Mister Hayes. That will be all for now, I think."

As the Headmistress escorted him to the door of her office, Aidan felt a momentary sense of relief that was quickly dispelled by fear as he noted the anxious and eager expressions on the many faces of the portraits. Only Dumbledore looked patient and serene; he nodded slightly at Aidan as the boy passed through the doorway, and then the door was closed.

_They're very concerned,_ he thought, the portraits fresh in his mind. For the first time, he gained some sense of what it was for a witch or wizard to face the loss of their ability, to be nothing more than a mere human being. He recalled the look of mute disbelief on Justin's face, the shock evident on Madame Pomfrey's, the uncertainty in McGonagall's eyes, and he understood. He would give away his powers in a second—they had caused him nothing but trouble ever since their manifestation—but, if he was instead forced to give up something, some part of himself he had come to rely on and take for granted, like his hands or his eyes…

_Or Ciarán,_ he realized with a start. Yet it was true that the person who had first greeted him on arrival had been the older boy. It had been Ciarán who showed him around the school, introduced him to the other Ravenclaws, aided him in his encounter with Blair, come with him on a cold and stormy night though he did not know where or why. Even now, as he rode down the winding stairs, which had automatically reversed direction the moment he set foot on it, he knew he would find the older boy waiting for him in the Ravenclaw common room. Once again he found himself contemplating the loss of the older boy, and once again the thought was unbearable to the point of pain.

He pondered this as he made his way down the empty hallways, hardly noticing the route his feet were taking until a clammy, unpleasant sensation passed abruptly over his skin, causing him to shudder. He had just walked through a ghost.

"Sorry," he apologized automatically, turning to see which ghost it had been. Some of the Hogwarts spirits were more offended than others when a student simply walked through them as if they did not exist. Not that Aidan knew of any students who would willingly experience what he had just experienced; no one in their right mind actually enjoyed the sickening feeling of passing through something that was most definitely not dead.

"Unnecessary," the Grey Lady replied, waving one pale hand dismissively. "I, too, was lost in thought." She considered Aidan pensively for a moment. "They are saying"—she nodded at the portraits that lined the corridor—"that a student was attacked. That his power was taken from him."

Aidan nodded mutely. _I suppose everyone will have heard about it by now._

"They also say that you were the one who discovered him."

Aidan nodded again, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other. He did not know the Grey Lady well enough to know how to excuse himself politely; as a result, he had to wait for her to provide him with an opening.

The Grey Lady, however, seemed more interested in questioning him. "Yet he accused you of attacking him and attempted to use the unforgivable Killing Curse on you when he awoke."

"He was—delirious," Aidan mumbled. Her gaze was penetrating, but not in the same way as Dumbledore's. When Dumbledore looked at person in that manner there was still a hint of kindness in his expression, but the Grey Lady's expression was that of a ghost: impassive, veiled and inscrutable, neither benevolent nor malevolent. It might have set Aidan on edge except that there was an unexpected void in his mind where his feelings used to be, as if they had simply ceased to exist.

The Lady nodded slowly. "But he had reason to believe you would desire to harm him."

"Harm him?" Aidan repeated curiously. "I tried to save him."

"You tried to save him? You were present when he was attacked?"

"No. I was in the library. I had a vision," he explained. "It felt like I was there, but I couldn't change anything."

"A powerful vision," she observed.

"It was," Aidan agreed, feeling…nothing. There was no guilt, no accusation, no emotion; only intelligent reason. _Something of her must have rubbed off_, he thought with interest.

"Such a powerful vision usually indicates that the viewer has an especially strong connection to someone in the vision," the Lady said slowly.

"Well, I'd met Justin once before," Aidan answered abstractedly. "He and I didn't really get on." It was intriguing to feel so impassive, to be so far removed from all emotion that one's thoughts ran about unhindered, connecting and intertwining at will, forming new conclusions and seeing things that others, bogged down by feelings, did not. Aidan rather thought he would like to study the phenomenon, but the Grey Lady kept interrupting.

"Did you experience the vision from his perspective?"

Aidan shook his head. "No. I was the attacker." There was no need to explain further; she knew what he meant. "So you mean to say I know the attacker." He frowned slightly. "I thought I was the attacker, but if it wasn't me, who could it have been?" His mind, freed though it had been from all sense of feeling, seemed to have hit a brick wall. The answers were not coming; the connections were not being made as they should be. It might have been frustrating, if he could feel; now it was merely a challenge, an obstacle to be overcome.

"Can you think of no one?" the Grey Lady asked.

Aidan performed a quick mental inventory of everyone he had met over the past summer at Hogwarts—Shauna, Ronan, Aaron, and others whose names he could not recall, who were nothing more than vague faces seen briefly before the end of term—but none of them felt right as Justin's assailant. "No," he finally said, "I can't."

The Lady nodded and bent slightly so that she was looking Aidan directly in the eyes. "You were not the only one who went to Hogsmeade last night."

The brick wall crumbled as the image of a dark-haired, sodden boy rose up in Aidan's mind. _Ciarán…_

"Impossible," he said flatly. Somewhere, in some far distant corner of his mind, Aidan felt a twinge of emotion and moved to suppress it. Emotionalism would only cloud the issue, prevent him from discovering the true attacker.

The Grey Lady straightened up and said nothing.

Aidan's rational mind continued to churn away, ignoring the emotions building up like dark thunderclouds threatening to unleash a torrent upon it. It only made sense to suspect Ciarán; the boy had been in Hogsmeade after dark, he was known to the constable, and there was an uneasy sense of familiarity about the dark figure whose identity Aidan assumed in his vision. It made sense to _suspect_ him, even as he had suspected himself, but to implicate him?

"He was only there to—" he began, fighting to keep control. _To do what? Did he tell me? What was he doing there? Skulking about in a black cloak and waiting for the right moment to strike? Does that seem right?_

_Possibly—no! Absolutely not! _

Despite Aidan's best efforts to snuff it out, the faint flicker of feeling spread rapidly, burning through the rational calm that had descended upon him. No longer did he feel the self-recrimination and doubt of before; the Grey Lady had taken that from him, made him see reason, and in the process, implicated the only one who really mattered. Now, he fought to stave off the panic of the realization, to drive it from his mind, along with its consequences, but his mental control had broken down, and his mind was reduced to a single thought.

_Not Ciarán. It's not Ciarán._

_But he _was _in Hogsmeade at the time the attack occurred._

_No! I _won't _believe it!_

"You're wrong," he whispered to the Grey Lady as he struggled to hold onto the one thing that mattered, the _only_ thing that mattered, dashing aside the hot tears that sprang to his eyes. Ciarán was dependable, Ciarán was reliable, Ciarán cared about everyone—Ronan and Aaron and Aidan and _everyone_ and he would never, _could_ never attack another person.

_Why else would he keep telling me that I didn't do it? Why else would I feel as if I _knew_ the figure in my vision intimately enough to _be_ the figure in my vision?_

_Stop it!_ he screamed in the vaults of his mind. He felt he would claw at his eyes if it would rid him of the image of Ciarán dressed in black, dripping wet as he came down the stairs from the Ravenclaw common room.

"You're wrong," he repeated louder, biting his lower lip to prevent it from quivering as all of his efforts failed and his world shattered around him. He bit down so hard his lip started to bleed, but he was beyond physical feeling, wrapped up in his emotions which were surging like the waves before a storm, alternating between disbelief and sorrowful acceptance. "You're wrong!" It came out as a hoarse plea; he was begging the Grey Lady to turn back the inexorable tide of reason that threatened to drown him, to take back her revelation and give back the Ciarán he knew, the sympathetic and sensitive older boy instead of the cold-blooded assailant. The tears flowed freely down his face; his whole body felt as if it was trying to cave in on itself with his every breath and all the world, all of life was misery.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

_Sorry? She's sorry! Sorry that she's taken him from me!_ Defiant anger did what she would not: picked up on the tiny strand of doubt that threaded itself through his mind and held on tightly. _It could be a coincidence, nothing more than chance, how does she know anyway, she never leaves the castle, she doesn't know what it is to love someone anymore, to need them, or maybe she remembers and she's jealous…_

"You're wrong," he said shakily, but with more conviction than before. "You'll see." Before she could reply, before she could take away the illusion he clung to, Aidan turned and fled.


	15. Truths

Phoenix Song

_I SOLEMNLY SWEAR THAT I AM UP TO NO GOOD:_ This story has everything you could ever want in it: strong language, strong situations, sex—so if you are under the legal age of consent for your (choose from the following: room, house, block, suburb, city, state, country, league of countries, planet, star system, constellation, galaxy, or universe) or if scenes of violence and/or sexuality confuse and/or otherwise irritate you, then you should put this away and go read the newspaper. Because you definitely won't find anything like that in there.

Additionally, please note that I have no control over the _Harry Potter_ characters we all know and love so much as to be obsessive and create stories for—only J.K. Rowling may be called their god, and it is she that owns them and who decides whether they live or die. My powers extend only to my own characters, who are mine, and who will all die anyway! (Or not).

Be warned: there's sex in this chapter! If such a thing bothers you, then go pretend sex doesn't exist (while your significant other takes advantage of the fact that it does).

FIFTEEN 

It took a few moments for Aidan's consciousness to register where he was going; though he was running like the first time, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, hearing nothing but the roar in his mind, the insistent thud of his heart against his ribcage, the shuddering breaths he took at intervals—it was different this time. Some part of himself was aware enough to guide him up the spiral stone stairs that led to Ravenclaw tower, past the grouchy stone occamy, and into the common room, where he expected to find Ciarán waiting for him. But Ciarán was not there, and it felt like a violation of the natural order of things as Aidan's overwrought mind struggled to come to terms with the conclusions the Grey Lady had drawn for him—struggled and failed, like a sluggish engine trying to turn over and never quite building the impetus. _It's not true; it isn't true, it can't be true_—the thoughts chased each other round in circles in his head, making him feel dizzy, causing him to sink to the blue carpet, fighting back tears, struggling to hold back the anguish and despair—and succeeding at neither effort.

Aidan wished time would slow to a crawl; he wished the entire universe would pause and take notice of what it was putting him through. It wasn't _fair_, it wasn't _right_ to give him an identity and then cloud it with doubt, to give him a friend—and more than a friend, if even only for a few moments—only to take him away. Ciarán _would_ be taken away, if everything that the Grey Lady had caused him to understand was true, and so he steeled his resolve, he willed it not to be, willed reality to bend to his will for once, instead of the other way around. But the universe remained immune to his efforts, neither slowing nor taking notice of the attempts of one thirteen year-old boy to change the entire course of his history. The laws of reality were immutable; Aidan was powerless to stop them, and so he sat on the blue carpeted floor, rocking back and forth, crying silent tears while the portraits muttered softly to themselves on the wall and the fire crackled loudly in the grate.

Only time seemed pliable, only his perception of it could be modified, slowed, so that he could half-forget, in the space of a heartbeat, what it was that had upset him; it seemed as if his entire life had been one long stretch of despair and flight from that despair. The sorrow had always been there, hadn't it, always hovered over everything that he did and everything that had happened to him, an undercurrent of reality that could not be seen, only heard, like the silent song of the phoenix in his dreams: mournful, all-encompassing, and very old. There was a slight lilt to the phoenix song; a sweet, solitary note at the end that, when sustained, spoke volumes, even in the darkest depths of space. "Everything may yet turn out all right," said that note, "only believe it will be so." Aidan did not feel hopeful, he thought he might not believe; his life had not yet reached that final note.

Presently, Aidan came to, finding that he was lying quietly on the carpet, staring at the flames that danced energetically over the glowing logs in the fireplace. There was something calming about the fire, something at once friendly and reassuring in the way the yellows, oranges and reds leapt high into the air, borne upward on the draft created by the flames before disappearing in a thin tendril of smoke. It was oddly entrancing. Without knowing why, Aidan was drawn to them, his overwrought mind desperate to soothe the dull ache he felt. He sat up and crawled over to the hearth, where the warmth of the flames at once washed over him, welcomed him, warmed him, promised to ward off all that was dark and bad and terrible to feel. Aidan longed for the peace the fire seemed to hint at; unthinkingly, he held his hands out, watching the glow of the fire dance over his skin. A second or two passed before Aidan realized he was warming his hands in the fire rather than over it. With a start, he jerked them away, expecting to feel the searing pain of a major burn, but it did not come. His skin registered only gentle warmth, like sunlight, and when he held his hands up before his face to examine them, there was no indication that they had been exposed to excessive heat, even though the sleeves of his shirt had turned jet black.

Curious, he turned back to the fireplace, momentarily forgetting his woes in the face of the unexplained. Something registered in the back of his mind as he stared at the flames, something like recognition. As far back as his memory permitted him to explore, Aidan could find no record of his ever having been burned by fire, although he had always assumed that was because he knew enough to be careful around it. But was that the case?

In response to his summons, a memory floated up into his consciousness, a memory from only three or four years before. Elisa had been bedridden with the flu, and Morgan was out of town, leaving Aidan to care for her as best as a nine year-old could. He remembered sticking his head into her bedroom, asking if she needed anything and worrying because she looked so pale he was afraid she might pass away and leave him alone with Morgan.

"No," Elisa had replied softly in response to his question. "Just rest." Aidan had nodded and slowly backed out, closing the door behind him; all the while his stomach was clenched in fear for Elisa's safety. He decided to make tea for her, since he could nothing else. He fervently hoped she would get better; he did not want to be alone in the house with Morgan. There might never again be a reprieve from the terrible things the man visited on him. Doing his best to repress these thoughts, Aidan made his way down to the kitchen.

Elisa had an old silver teakettle, the kind that whistled from the stove top when the water boiled; Aidan filled it and set it on to boil, as he had seen Elisa do countless times when she was entertaining visitors. The difficulty arose when it came time to remove the kettle from the stove; since it had been made during a time when no one believed in insulated handles, he quickly discovered that he would not be able to pick it up. As he nursed his singed fingers, his eyes lit upon the roll of paper towels on the counter by the sink. Without considering the combustibility of paper when brought into close proximity with a gas-fueled flame, Aidan tore a few sheets from the roll.

What happened next was, for the most part, to be expected. The paper towels caught flame as Aidan attempted to grab the handle of the tea kettle, and Aidan yelped in surprise as he noticed the small fire he had on his hands, quite literally—the flames were hungrily making their way across the surface of the paper towels around which his hands were wrapped. He dropped the paper towels at once, and the fire fluttered lazily to the floor, dying down as the paper blackened and turned to ash.

Aidan remembered staring at his hands then, too, trying to figure out why he had not been burned and writing it off as luck. But it hadn't been luck; it had been something in Aidan himself, something that both recognized the fire and welcomed it as a friend, as something akin to itself.

_Fire is my element_. His breathing quickened in time with his pace as the thought clicked, as another piece of the puzzle that was Aidan Hayes fell into place. Certainly it made sense, didn't it? Everything, every piece of magic that he had done here at Hogwarts—and elsewhere—dealt with fire, expressed itself as burning flame. Even in his dreams there was fire: in the firebird talked to him and in the stars that poured forth light and heat and vast amounts of power, filling the void with soundless fury, a roar that could be heard in the mind, that was at once both triumphant and defiant as the light, the fire, drove back the darkness.

_Fire is my element._ It was the simple truth; so simple, so undeniably _real_ that his mind accepted it at once without question. Aidan did not know why or how, and for the moment it made no difference; fire was his element. Fire was his essence. Before Aidan could press much further in his mounting excitement at his discovery, his thought process was abruptly disrupted by a sudden rush of cold air, which blew past him to extinguish the fire in the fireplace, leaving only glowing coals as a testament to the onetime existence of the flames. Startled, Aidan turned to see who had entered the common room and found himself staring at Ciarán. At once, the momentary thrill of excitement that came with self-discovery was snuffed out, much like the flames in the fireplace, and the conflicting emotions of a few moments before resurged with a vengeance. It was all Aidan could do to keep them down, all he could do to keep himself from shaking as he warily watched the older boy stride over to the couch before him and throw himself down.

"What's wrong?" Ciarán asked, noticing the tension in the younger boy's gaze, in his posture. The only light in the room now was provided by the sunlight streaming through the high windows; it reflected from Ciarán's dark hair and liquid blue eyes, softened his features slightly around the edges of his face, where the faint peach fuzz refracted the golden light.

_You don't look like the kind of person who attacks someone and takes away all their powers_, Aidan thought, feeling his heart ache as it struggled with his mind for dominance. Aidan was torn in two, caught between doubt in the older boy and hope that somehow Ciarán might still be innocent, but it was a slim hope, as tenuous as a single strand of spider silk glinting in sunlight; beautiful to look at, but of no consequence to the one who chose to pass through it. Yet while it was whole, it was strong; though it wavered and shook before the howling gale that was Aidan's doubt in Ciarán's trustworthiness, that single gleaming filament of light did not break.

"What is it?" Ciarán asked again, leaning forward, concern inscribed in his features.

Aidan took a deep breath, as one does before plunging into icy waters, and asked the question to which he feared he already knew the answer. "Why...why were you in Hogsmeade last night, Ciarán?"

The older boy frowned. "I was helping you out."

Aidan shook his head. "No, I mean before that. Before we found Justin." His eyes searched Ciarán's own for some emotion, some reaction to the mention of Justin's name, but there was only faint puzzlement there. _What was I expecting?_

_Guilt._ Aidan brushed the thought aside and waited for Ciarán to reply.

The older boy shifted uncomfortably on the couch, coughing and looking embarrassed. "I, uh—I was trying to find something," he said finally.

_Or someone_, Aidan thought sorrowfully. _He's not telling me everything._ Tears sprang to his eyes as he considered the older boy, his eyes taking in every inch of Ciarán's frame, and it took a moment for Aidan to realize that he was imprinting the essence of Ciarán on his memory for what would be the last time; he was attempting to capture the older boy's essence as best as he could before the end. Because it surely would end; Aidan knew that much. He felt neither strong nor certain where Ciarán was concerned, but he knew McGonagall would find out what Ciarán had done, and he would be the one who told her. The thought that he would become the instrument of Ciarán's downfall rent his heart in half.

Ciarán must have caught some hint of Aidan's internal struggle because he stood up at once and stepped closer to the younger boy, resting both hands on Aidan's shoulders. "Hey," he said softly, "what's bothering you?"

Aidan bit down hard on his lower lip to keep it from trembling, staring resolutely on Ciarán's chest in front of him, refusing to meet the older boy's eyes for fear his resolve would melt. It was hard enough to maintain as it was; he wanted to wrap his arms around the other boy, he wanted to hold on to him and never let go, he wanted to shut out the rest of the universe, ignore the twinges of his conscience and the constant repetition of his rational mind. _He's guilty. He attacked Justin. He's guilty._

Perhaps it was because of that unbroken strand of hope, but Aidan could not bring himself to make the accusation. Rather, he said in an unsteady voice, "You were the only other one who went to Hogsmeade last night. They might—they might think that—" He trailed off, looking meaningfully up at Ciarán's face, where a look of comprehension dawned.

"Oh," Ciarán breathed. He took a step backward and sank back down onto the couch. Aidan felt as though the short distance between the older boy and himself may as well have been a chasm of a thousand miles.

"I just don't know if I—if I could lose you, now that I've found you," Aidan found himself confessing in halting tones as his emotions battered against his restraints. He had not meant to admit it, but it was the truth. He did not want to be alone against the world again. He desperately wanted Ciarán to tell him something believable, something that would forever remove the possibility that they might be separated.

Ciarán did not look at him and it seemed as though a wall had sprung up between them. "What do you think?" he said finally, staring at the empty fireplace. "Am I guilty?"

_Yes. No._ Aidan's heart and mind battled for control of his voice, but neither succeeded in taking it. "I don't know," Aidan replied softly.

A shadow crossed the older boy's face, a look of pain that was quickly suppressed. He turned his gaze on Aidan and considered him sorrowfully for a moment. Nothing needed to be said; the look in the older boy's eyes said it all.

"But why?" Aidan wailed, all of his restraints giving way as his worst fears were finally, incontrovertibly confirmed. Ciarán would be taken away, he would never see him again, he would never feel his reassuring presence—he would be alone.

"I'm sorry," Ciarán said tightly, and there were tears in his eyes, too; it was the closest Aidan had seen the older boy to crying. "I never meant for you to be involved. I didn't reckon on your gift."

The words hardly registered in Aidan's mind, he was swimming in so much sorrow he felt he would drown; he could hardly breathe as the misery pressed in on him from all sides; an immense river of emotion dammed up only by Aidan's will—and that was failing; already the tears were streaming freely down his cheeks. The two boys stared silently at each other for a time, neither one daring to speak lest all of the emotions each felt pour out at once.

"What will you do?" Ciarán asked at length, looking up at Aidan with uncertainty in his blue eyes.

_Turn him in. Tell McGonagall. He's not to be trusted. He attacked a student. Took away his power, somehow. He could do the same to me._

But Aidan could not bring himself to do anything; though he knew McGonagall ought to be informed, though he knew that was the right and proper course of action, his heart balked at doing so, and for once, it had gained the upper hand. All he could do was shake his head mutely; overcome with grief, he had no words.

Ciarán wet his lips nervously. "Look, I realize this is difficult for you to understand," he began. "There's—there's a lot more..." He seemed to be struggling to find the words. "It's complicated," he finished at last, sighing heavily and wiping his face with the back of one hand.

"I have to turn you in," Aidan said, riding the wave of emotion that rose as he considered the possibility, the reality that he was never going to see Ciarán again. "They'll take you away."

Ciarán nodded. "You have to do the right thing. But…"

"But what?" Aidan shouted as the wave crested, abruptly turning from sorrow to anger. How dare Ciarán suggest another course of action, try to sway Aidan because of how he felt about Ciarán? "It's not like you've given me a lot of bloody choice! D'you think I want to?" His voice was rising as the tide came crashing down, threatening to turn him hysterical. "I love you!" The admission cost him dearly; it was all he could do to remain on his feet, staring intently into Ciarán's face and breathing heavily. He felt utterly spent.

Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the sound of one of the portraits stirring and snapping, "Do keep it down! Not all of us enjoy being privy to the soap opera that is your lives, you know!"

"Oh, I don't know, Hilgarde," said another of the portraits in a sardonic tone of voice. "I find it to be quite educational."

Ciarán glared up at the portraits for a moment before turning his attention back to Aidan. "Can we go somewhere private?" he asked softly. There was a great deal of tension in his face, as if he, too, had been suppressing powerful emotions, as if he actually _cared_.

_If he really cared, he wouldn't have done it, wouldn't have made it impossible for us to be together._

Aidan brushed the thought aside, at once tired, too tired to care anymore. He slowly followed the older boy up to the empty dormitory.

"You should sit down," Ciarán said softly.

Aidan nodded absently, sinking down onto the nearest bed while Ciarán paced nervously back and forth in front of him, running one hand through his dark hair. Aidan chose a point on the stone wall and considered it without really seeing it. It was a great deal less painful than looking at Ciarán.

Finally, Ciarán sighed heavily and sat down next to him on the bed, taking one of Aidan's hands in his own. "There's more going on than I can tell you," he said urgently.

Aidan snorted without any real feeling, refusing to look at the older boy. "And that's supposed to explain everything, is it?"

"No," Ciarán replied reasonably. "It's not."

For some reason, the rational tone of voice, the way Ciarán acknowledged and validated Aidan's feelings and accepted Aidan's point of view, recognized he'd done something wrong, made Aidan angry all over again. "Stop giving me all the right answers!" he seethed, yanking his hand away from Ciarán and standing up. "Stop making it so difficult!" _For me to hate you_, he added silently. "You're the bad guy now, Ciarán! Start acting like it!"

The look of pain crossed Ciarán's face once more as the older boy looked up at Aidan. "Do I look like the bad guy, Aidan?" he murmured.

Aidan bit his lower lip, which had started trembling again. "No," he admitted in a small voice. The hot tears started flowing again; he dashed them away with one hand so that they would not interfere with his vision of the older boy. "You look like Ciarán."

"I am Ciarán," the older boy said firmly, standing up and putting his arms around the younger boy. Aidan did not resist, did not pull away, though his mind warned him that he should. His heart still had the upper hand.

"I'm so confused," Aidan wept, burying his face in Ciarán's shoulder and letting the tears come. "I don't know anything anymore!"

Ciarán held him tighter. "Whatever happens, I love you," he said softly. Aidan looked up into the older boy's eyes at this statement and saw only sincerity, only the truth. Whatever else Ciarán might be, whatever else he might have done or might still do, he was this person, this boy that he loved. Without knowing why, knowing only a sudden urgency, Aidan rose on his tiptoes and kissed the older boy, who responded in kind, running his hands lightly up and down Aidan's back.

"What're you doing?" Ciarán asked, puzzled, breaking off the kiss and staring at Aidan quizzically.

"I don't know," Aidan replied in the barest of whispers. "I just—I need...before you go..." He trailed off; his heart was pounding so hard it could have knocked him over, it could have shaken the castle walls; he _needed_ something, something that Ciarán could give him, and Ciarán was more than willing. The older boy nodded slowly and gently pressed him back onto the bed before climbing over him, holding himself up with one arm while his free hand went exploring. They kissed again, harder this time, each letting the intensity of the moment—and their freshly-bruised emotions, which desired to express something that mere words could not—overtake them.

Aidan gasped and bit down on Ciarán's lower lip as Ciarán's hand found its way under his shirt to flutter lightly over his bare skin. The older boy gazed down at him, a question and a hunger in his blue eyes, and Aidan nodded once, surrendering himself to the moment as Ciarán pulled the younger boy's shirt up as far as it would go and began planting kisses here and there on his exposed skin, igniting a fire wherever he made contact.

"Gah!" he hissed as the older boy's lips brushed across his nipples; first one, then the other, pausing briefly to swirl his tongue around each before tweaking them gently with his teeth. Breathing heavily, Ciarán paused to shrug off his shirt, and Aidan took the opportunity to rise from the bed and explore the older boy's body in turn, kissing his way down Ciarán's neck, his chest, his hands playing lightly over the older boy's back while his mouth worked its way down the front of Ciarán's body, following the light trail of dark hair that ran from the older boy's chest to his belly button, where it was interrupted for a brief moment before it continued, disappearing into his jeans. Aidan's hands groped through the fabric until they found what he sought; Ciarán breathed in sharply and arched his back, pressing in closer to the younger boy and moving to undo the button that kept him in check, but Aidan brushed his hands aside, carefully undoing the button on his own and sliding the jeans down over Ciarán's waist as the older boy stretched himself up to aid the process.

Beneath Ciarán's jeans was a worn pair of plaid boxers whose fabric was currently under a great deal of strain. Aidan helped the older boy to shuck his pants entirely before turning his attention once more to Ciarán's more pressing concern, which felt warm and solid through the thin fabric of the older boy's underwear. Ciarán was breathing heavily now, staring at Aidan with a mixture of helplessness and desire, and Aidan smiled slightly, caught up in the moment, glad to have an excuse to forget everything that had occurred and focus on this one person, this one thing that he could do. Before reality came crashing back in on them both, he could _know_ Ciarán, imprint him on his memory in a way that was far more lasting than mere words and touch, and he could make the older boy happy in the process. He needed it, he wanted it, he desired it like he had desired nothing else in all of his life.

Gently, Aidan pressed Ciarán back onto the bed, kissing him once more on the mouth even as the older boy half-raised himself off the bed in a silent plea for release. Ignoring it for the moment, Aidan once more began planting kisses along the whole length of Ciarán's body while his hands ran every which way over the older boy's bare skin, sometimes coming tantalizingly close but sliding away at the very last second. Ciarán began to pant and moan softly as Aidan worked his way down; the older boy's desire growing more insistent, more desperate. Just as it seemed as though Aidan would finally relieve Ciarán of his tension, just as his mouth brushed against the elastic waistband of the Ciarán's shorts, Aidan stopped, grinning cheekily at the older boy, who opened one eye and smiled despite his condition.

"Tease," he whispered hoarsely.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Aidan responded playfully, taking hold of Ciarán's aching member through the fabric of his boxers.

Ciarán gasped and clenched his fists. "Ye—yes, you do," he panted. "Where—where did you learn--?"

"Ssh," Aidan instructed, not wanting to remember anything but here and now. Gently, he tugged at the elastic waistband of the older boy's shorts, slowly, deliberately edging them downward even as a plaintive moan escaped Ciarán's lips and he thrust upward, his tension by now nearly unbearable.

"Please," the older boy implored.

Aidan relented and quickly stripped Ciarán of his boxers, setting free the object of the younger boy's focus, which was pulsing in time to the older boy's elevated heartbeat and had already begun to leak a small amount of fluid in anticipation of what was coming. Gently, Aidan wrapped one hand around the older boy's flesh, eliciting a contented sigh from Ciarán. Aidan marveled at the way the heat radiated from it, at the way it felt so natural in his hands, even though he had never, ever touched another person like this in all his life and had never wanted to until now. But he knew what to do. Slowly, he worked his hand back and forth over its length, his own heart racing as Ciarán moaned softly in time to the rhythm he had established, his face contorted in a strange mixture of agony and ecstasy, eyes closed, fists alternately opening and closing.

It did not take long for Aidan to notice that Ciarán was nearing his climax, such was the inexpressible torment that the younger boy had put him through, and it was a thought along those lines that caused Aidan to pause, considering the older boy thoughtfully for a fraction of a moment, emblazoning the look of torment and near-release on Ciarán's face before leaning forward and planting a single tender kiss on the tip of the older boy's swollen member, which proved to be too much for Ciarán to handle.

"Oh, God, Aidan, I'm going to—!" Ciarán breathed, but his words were cut off by a loud, sustained cry as he reached the breaking point, and it sounded as though the cry was torn from his very essence; it shook the older boy's body. It was at once and the same time a plaintive lament full of sorrow and an exultant shout that reminded Aidan strongly of the note at the end of the phoenix song in his dream; as the cry tore from his lips, all of Ciarán's pent-up tension erupted, not once, but several times, leaving the older boy shuddering and gasping for breath, his dazed expression accentuated by a thin sheen of perspiration. Aidan gently let go of Ciarán and watched the older boy as he lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily and attempting to recover from the exertion.

It was several minutes before the older boy regained the use of his voice. Aidan took the time to clean up a little bit before curling up next to Ciarán, content to watch the older boy doze and memorize his every feature. Reality began to intrude on his consciousness, but with less urgency than before. Whatever Aidan had so desperately needed from Ciarán, he had gotten it, even though he did not know what it was. It was enough to have this moment. His rational mind argued against the feeling of contentment that had descended upon him, but Aidan ignored it, though it even went so far as to remind him that Ciarán owed him the same kind of attention he had just received.

_There'll be time enough for that_, he thought sleepily, though he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that there was no more time at all. Without realizing it, without meaning to, Aidan slipped over the threshold between dreams and the waking world.

_Do you understand? _

It was the phoenix, its white-hot plumage shining brightly against the dark backdrop of his sleep and regarding him mournfully. Even in his dream the light was painful to look at; it was so pure, so _real_ that everything else, including Aidan himself, felt like a lie masquerading as reality next to it.

_I understand_, Aidan replied, though he was not certain until that very moment that he did. But comprehension was coming to him rapidly, fueled by a calm certainty, an acceptance of reality that Aidan had not had before. _Ciarán is the one who brings the Third Darkness._

_He is._

_It has something to do with taking away people's powers._

_It does._

_I'll have to stop him_. It was a simple statement but it carried with it a weight of sadness that, although distant in this time and place, could still be felt.

_It must be done._ The phoenix sounded sorrowful.

From somewhere outside of the dream, someone whispered softly, "I'm sorry, Aidan," and brushed his lips lightly with their own.

_He's leaving._ Aidan's mind was working fast. He thought he could wake up, stop the older boy from going, get McGonagall involved somehow, and the whole thing would be over. But even as he reached out toward his conscious mind and the waking world, he hesitated.

_Tell me how I can stop him without hurting him_. Aidan turned to where the phoenix had been, but only in time to see it fade into the darkness of his dreams. He was abandoned here even as he was abandoned in the waking world, and it hurt, it was a pain so terrible that he thought he could not withstand it, but he did, he held out, because it was preferable to waking up in the empty bed, as he knew he must.

It was his body that overcame this desire; thinking the pain was a sign of imminent danger, it awoke him at once. His every muscle ached, but none more so than his heart as he stared at the vacant spot next to him, knowing that when next he saw Ciarán, it would be as his enemy.


End file.
